


The Way It Was

by Allisonnnn



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Arthur Morgan Does Not Have Tuberculosis, Character Death, Fix-It, Gen, High Honor Arthur Morgan, Spoilers, Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-19
Updated: 2020-04-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:07:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 30,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22795252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Allisonnnn/pseuds/Allisonnnn
Summary: Arthur died happy, knowing that he was able to save John and his family. He won, so why does he find himself suddenly back at Horseshoe Overlook, back at the start. Maybe it's a chance to not just save John, but everyone.
Relationships: Arthur Morgan & Dutch van der Linde, John Marston & Arthur Morgan
Comments: 124
Kudos: 311





	1. Ghosts

**Author's Note:**

> Being slightly obsessed with the game and crushed with the ending yet again, I thought I'd try to write something where Arthur gets a chance to change things for the better.
> 
> This is the first time I've attempted fanfic in what has to be over a decade (I have nooooo idea what I'm doing), and I would love to know if it's worth continuing! Any suggestions for what I should do or where to go (and what I should tag stuff with) would be amazing!

“Uncle Arthur! Uncle Arthur!”

Arthur stirs, but doesn’t move. For a moment, he simply focuses on breathing, his lungs clear - pain free- for the first time in months. He doesn’t know what he was expecting - blackness, maybe, nothingness, an end - but not this. Gone too is the fatigue that made everything so hard. He feels like he did before, when there was hope; when they’d got off that damn mountain and found themselves in the Heartlands, finally able to relax again. Right before everything went to shit. 

Almost, he’s afraid to open his eyes. He remembers dying, remembers turning to watch the sunrise and finally, finally letting go, knowing that John was safe, at least. And Abigail, Jack. He hadn’t been able to help Sean, Kieran, Lenny, or Hosea, but at least he’d got John and his family out. That’s all he’d wanted. He hadn’t thought about what would happen next.

“Uncle Arthur!” the voice is more insistent now, and Arthur feels someone tug on his sleeve. “ _Uncle Arthur!_ Micah says I should-”

 _Micah._

Micah who’s still alive. Who survived. Dutch didn’t go with him, but… Dutch left. He left. _I gave you all I had, Dutch._

And Jack. _Jack._ He recognises that voice. Jack should be far away. _Safe._ Away from Micah. He doesn’t think Micah would have been able to find them so quickly. Abigail, Sadie, Tilly. He thinks he gave John enough time, but...

Arthur bolts up right, then, scrabbling for his gun-belt, and finally opens his eyes, ready to land a bullet in Micah’s face like he should have done the moment he saw him. What he sees makes him pause, stop, however, forgetting about the guns, about shooting Micah in the face.

 _Everything_ stops when he sees Hosea approaching him.

Maybe, he thinks, he’s in heaven; that there really is something, but then he feels another tug on his sleeve and turns to see Jack. The sight makes him feel sick. Can’t be heaven, because Jack was fine. Alive. Pale, afraid, but alive, unless the Pinkertons got them and… and… Arthur can’t bring himself to finish the thought. Even they wouldn’t, not with a kid, but Dutch… Dutch seems to have turned half the country upside down, set everyone against each other, made them do things they normally wouldn’t. If Dutch had just gone with the original plan; got them that ranch and settled down, then everything would have been okay. But that had never seemed enough for him. Always one more plan, one last score. Never enough.

But Jack... Jack and Hosea can’t be together. They can’t. Because Hosea is dead, Arthur is, too, now, he realises, but not Jack.

He draws in a breath, his lungs still clear. It’s shocking how easy it is. Hard to believe that his lungs were ever this clear, but here they are. Now he just needs to find his voice.

He opens his mouth, but Hosea cuts across him. 

“Now, now, Jack, leave Uncle Arthur alone. Uncle Arthur had a late night and is still very tired. Maybe you can come back later and ask your question then. I’ll give you _two_ dollars if you do. How about that?”

Jack immediately lets go of Arthur’s sleeve. “Really?”

Hosea nods, and Arthur then watches as Jack skips away, humming under his breath. He hasn’t seen Jack this happy since Shady Belle at least. Been too scared. They all have, but it’s been worse for the boy, especially after John… especially after Dutch left him, telling everyone he hadn’t made it.

Hosea leans back against the barrel holding Arthur’s shaving gear and mirror. Of all the ways Heaven could look, Horseshoe Overlook is not what Arthur expected, but it’s an exact replica. He turns to see his pictures pinned against the wagon just as he remembers, hears music in the background, sees Mary-Beth walk across in front of them. Maybe Horseshoe Overlook is when they were all happiest, he thinks, down from the mountain and far, far away from the whole mess that was Blackwater. It was certainly before they started losing even more people.

Either way, he only notices that Hosea is holding a cup of coffee when it’s offered to him. Arthur takes it, hesitantly, almost afraid his hand will pass through it because if this ain’t Heaven, then Hosea has to be a ghost. Or he’s dreaming. 

But his hand connects with the metal cup. Real, then. Or at least feels real. The coffee definitely feels real as Arthur takes a drink. In the last few months, he’s barely eaten or drunk anything. Hasn’t felt like it. Especially coffee. It had tasted like ash in his mouth, but this is how he remembers it from before, when he wasn’t able to start the day without at least one cup. The strength of this coffee alone could wake him from the dead.

He doesn’t know what is going on. He doesn’t know what to think. He just remembers the sunrise, the deer turning towards him, the golden light, and now this. Arthur can’t stop staring, can’t stop looking at Hosea, trying to find the bullet hole, the chest wound that ended the man’s life.

“Micah is trying to wind you up through the boy,” Hosea continues, seemingly oblivious to the way Arthur is looking at him. He crosses his arms. “I think you best tell Jack not to listen to him.” He pauses, then, raising an eyebrow and leaning forward. “Are you all right, Arthur? I only guessed about the late night. We’re all still tired. It was a long trip down the mountain. Hard on us all-”

“How long-?” Arthur cuts in. 

“What?”

“Since the mountain,” Arthur continues, glancing about. There are still crates unpacked, but everything seems mostly settled. 

“A couple of weeks. Are you sure you’re all right, my boy?”

No, Arthur wants to say, he ain’t all right. A sudden coldness is sweeping through him, just like when he found out he had tuberculosis; the realisation that suddenly he has no control over what’s happening, and that he’s now helpless. Everything has suddenly shifted. He won. He was so sure he’d won, but right now he doesn’t know what’s going on, or why. Maybe this is some kind of joke or game. Can’t expect to be forgiven so easily. One right ain’t going to cure so many wrongs. Oh, he’d tried in the end, he had, with Mrs. Downes and her son, Rains Fall, Charlotte, and so many, many more, but he’d just run out of time. 

“Think I knocked my head.” He tries, now, to smile as he taps the side of his head. “Tried to get to bed without waking anyone up, ended up not bein’ able to see. Stumbled…” He lets the words fall, unable to continue. 

Hosea just sighs, pushing away from the barrel and stretching. “Arthur, Arthur, sometimes I don’t know how you’ve lasted as long as you have.There’s a bunch of the boys already in Valentine. Bill, Charles and Javier. Maybe you should join them, go see if there’s a doctors. Check yourself out. And Swanson found something. Down at the train station by the lake apparently. And Strauss…”

And that’s when Arthur’s ears start ringing. He remembers this conversation. Strauss. Loans. It’s Downes he got the TB from, beating him half to death. Not half. He killed him. Paid the price, too. Everyone paid the price for that. If he’d been a little stronger, maybe he’d have been able to stand up to Dutch, stop him from being so reckless and stupid. Got them away, perhaps. If he hadn’t got sick, if he hadn’t just gone along with what Strauss had asked. It’s always revolted him, collecting the debts, so why did he do it? Why’s he suddenly having to replay it all? Didn’t he do enough? For John? For Abigail and Jack? He doesn’t want to go through this again, doesn’t want to deal with the guilt, the pain, of what he put the Downes’ through, 

His hands start to shake, like they did with the tuberculosis, and he feels the cup slip from his fingers. His legs hit the back of his bed as he tries to make sense of everything he’s hearing. He needs to sit down, needs to think, needs to breathe, just breathe.

The edges of his vision goes gold. He sees the deer again, the stag, looking hard at him.

And then everything goes black.


	2. Brothers Always

It was all just a dream, Athur decides, if the dead can even dream. He’s not exactly sure what the dead can do, but he ain’t sure how else to explain it, because he knows he died; felt it. He lay on that rock, took his last breath and was happy. Well, maybe not so happy, but in those moments he was no longer afraid. He’d done what he could. Done what he’d set out to do, and the sun was rising on a new day, a new hope..

Now, though, he feels suddenly afraid. If the dead can feel fear. He’s not sure about that either. Funny, how that one detail matches with the rest of his life. Ain’t never been sure what to feel about anything. Always been torn in two, never sure what he is, and that seems to have continued on into death. Is he a ghost? Is this really just a dream? Is he just doing what people say happens before you die, watching his life flash before him? He never thought it’d mean literally living it again. 

He lets go, then, and lets himself be carried once more into darkness. Darkness he can deal with. Been dealing with it long enough. 

Only it don’t last long. 

Slowly, Arthur once again becomes aware of voices. He can’t make them out, though. They’re too far away. Muffled. He feels someone touch a hand to his forehead. The fingers are calloused, but the touch is gentle, though the screeching voice, suddenly loud, that follows ain’t. 

“I swear half of you would just rot in your own filth, if nobody kept you in check! John, you watch Arthur. Mr. Williamson, you get your ass over here!” There’s no failing to recognise the voice. Susan Grimshaw, killed by Micah. He’d never liked her all that much, thought she was too rough with the girls, but she’d do anything for those in the camp. He shouldn’t have been surprised that she’d stood with him at the end, against Dutch. She hadn’t deserved to die for it, though, shot in cold blood. “Now, sir, I wasn’t askin’. I’m telling! You’ll get the whole camp sick in that state! You’re revolting!”

Sick. Arthur’s chest tightens, but his breathing remains easy. Still no hint of the tuberculosis or the cough that constantly wracked him.

He must have moved, because someone else speaks. 

“Sleeping Beauty wakes!”

Now Arthur would recognise _that_ gruff voice anywhere. His eyes shoot open again, and he almost headbutts the other man as he scrambles into a sitting position, not believing, not wanting to see it. The words snap out before he can stop himself. The desperation’s back. What he felt near the end.“I thought I told you to leave! What you doin’ here! It ain’t safe!”

But John just looks at him, inching back ever so slightly, wary but with a smile on his face. One that’s always a prelude to some kind of teasing. His scar still looks fresh, Arthur realises, new, like it did back at Horseshoe Overlook. He gets that sinking feeling all over again and throws out a hand and leans forward as a wave of dizziness threatens. This ain’t happening. This ain’t real. None of it is making any sense. This ain’t his life flashing before him.

“Already know you’re a bear whenever you wake up, but I’ll take that over Miss. Grimshaw’s wrath any day, so you can yell at me all you want. Nothin’ new ‘bout that.” There it is again, the grin. Marston’s like everyone else, it seems, happy to be off the mountain. The anger will be back later, Arthur knows. He thinks sometimes that Marston just likes being angry with the world, or that he just ain’t grown up yet. Still the lovesick teenager chasing after Abigail. 

He grew up in the end, though, and that’s why he should be far from here. Arthur still can’t work it out. He really doesn’t feel like he’s dreaming. He doesn’t feel like he’s dead, either. 

“Never thought I’d see ya swoon,” Marston gleefully continues, sitting on the crate that acts as Arthur’s bedside table. Arthur’s fairly certain the flower he keeps in a vase has been knocked over. “Like a gir-!”

Marston never gets to finish the last word, breaking off in a yelp as Arthur pinches him on the arm, hard, still half expecting his hand to pass straight through. He’s seen those moving pictures. This could be just like that. But his hand connects with flesh, real flesh.

“Christ, Arthur, what was that for?” John’s indignant, rubbing at his arm like he’s been shot rather than pinched.

Arthur just swallows. There’s a part of him that wants to throw himself at John, hug the other man, because, whatever’s happened, John’s alive and well and safe - not in the way he had hoped - but safe is safe. He’d been shot, Arthur remembers. Back on the train when Dutch abandoned him and told them all he hadn’t made it. Anything could have happened on that mountain after they’d parted. _Anything_. There was still so much danger.

John really is his brother, Arthur realises as he checks the other man over, searching for any signs of the battle. That annoying younger sibling, but a brother nonetheless.

Suddenly, it’s all too much again, and he finds himself struggling to breathe. Not because his lungs are congested, but because panic is twisting its way through his guts. There’s those two feelings again, those two different sides. Relief and happiness warring with despair and anger.

“Quit your yapping, Marston,” he finally growls out, breath back as he stands and pushes away from John. He needs to walk. He needs to move, ‘cause if he don’t… Well, he don’t know what he’ll do. Can’t be any crazier, can’t _get_ any crazier than he is already. He was mad enough to follow Dutch, and any sense that he had left seems to have deserted him when he died. Only mad men hallucinate, after all, and he still ain’t decided what this is.

He also ain’t in the clothes he died in, he notices then, but in what he wore those first days at Horseshoe Overlook. If someone’s playing with him, they’re certainly making sure to get everything right. He strips off the jacket, suddenly too hot, so that he’s wearing just his blue shirt, the sleeves rolled off, and stomps off across the camp. Pearson moves to say something, but a glare stops him in his tracks. Everything’s as it was, as he remembers, down to the smallest detail.

...Right down to Kieran. 

Arthur freezes as he sees the poor bastard tied to the tree. Seems like he really is right at the beginning of everything again. The boy looks terrified. Arthur remembers he didn’t care the first time. Thought it was good that he was frightened, thought it was good to put a little pressure on him and scare him into talking. An O’Driscoll is an O’Driscoll, after all, but the boy’s harmless. Always has been, always was. Didn’t deserve to go the way he did. Didn’t deserve being treated how he was. Arthur knows he should have been kinder. Wishes he had. Wishes he hadn’t had to be convinced to let the kid tag along, even after the kid had saved his life. For fuck’s sake, they let Micah into the gang. 

And Kieran just wants what the rest of them wants: a family. A life. Safety. He should have run far, far away, but then so should they all.

“Ain’t no one gonna cut him down?” Arthur finds himself asking, gesturing towards the kid. Boy can’t be that much older than Sean. A year, two maybe? Arthur’s never been good at ages.“Y’all just gonna leave him there?”

A couple of weeks, Hosea had said. A couple of weeks since they got down off that mountain. He can’t believe they’ve waited this long.

Bill, who has apparently escaped Miss Grimshaw’s clutches, laughs as he sidles over, a pair of tongs in his hands, not yet heated. They’re familiar, and it’s enough for Arthur to know what will happen next. Or happened. 

“You mad, Morgan?” Bill says. “Heard you banged your head. Sure you should be sitting up and walkin’ around? Maybe you should go lie down again. I’ll go get Mary-Beth to fan that delicate little head of yours. Don’t want you fainting on us again.” 

Anger flares. Intense, hot, burning. The last time he saw Bill was at Beaver Hollow, standing with Dutch, refusing to believe that Micah was the rat. After everything that Dutch had done, all the fuck-ups, the disasters, the chaos he had got them into, Hosea, Lenny, leaving John behind, Bill had still stood with him, believed in him, thought he could do no wrong. If one more person, two, had just stood up, stopped acting like Dutch was some fucking hero-!

Before he knows what he’s doing, Arthur’s fist smashes into Bill’s face. He can feel his knuckles split. The pain matches his anger. Fuck all of them. He ain’t doing this again. He ain’t going through it. He ain’t just going to follow like a good little boy. There’s blood. Bill’s nose is broken, he’s fairly sure, but for some reason Arthur feels nothing but grim satisfaction. He can hear other members of the gang rushing over. John. Javier. Charles. The last two must have come back from Valentine with Bill while he was unconscious. Javier’s nursing a black eye. Seems they’ve already encountered that big ol’ fella at the saloon. Arthur can hear Dutch, voice raised to deliver a speech, can imagine him raising his hand, gold rings flashing on his fingers, but Arthur’s already turning. He can’t face him yet. Whatever this is, whatever’s going on, he ain’t ready to see Dutch. Not yet.

He pulls the tongs off Bill, throws them to the ground, and then reaches for his knife. It slices through the bonds like butter. Kieran almost falls, but Arthur catches him, supports him, not willing to treat the kid like he did the last time. He was so stupid, then. A fucking fool. _He_ , not Kieran, was the buffoon. 

“He’s been here too long,” he says, still not looking at anyone. “If Colm were lookin’ for him, we’d know by now. He ain’t important enough. He’s the most pathetic O’Driscoll I ever seen. Ain’t even a real one. Bet he just looked after the horses. But we...” He pauses. It feels like his lungs are filling up again, but they’re still clear, still free of the illness, and he’s still breathing. “We ain’t like Colm. We help those who need it. We don’t hold ‘em captive, torture them, try to rip out secrets they ain’t got. Thought we had a code.”

He’s never been good with words. Apparently this second time he isn’t either. Whoever decided to do this to him hasn’t decided to fill him with words of wisdom. Not that he needs them. He ain’t planning on staying around to talk.

Bill is groaning in the background, muttering about a broken nose. Arthur doesn’t stop. Instead, he wraps his hand around Kieran’s arm and pulls him towards the horses. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, but he doesn’t pause to think. He just knows he isn’t doing this again. It’s not going to be like the last time. He ain’t just going to sit and watch and go along. Might still be a dream, might be some kind of weird Heaven or Hell, but that doesn’t mean it has to be exactly the same, that he has to play along and watch as those he cares for die around him. 

“You’re comin’ with me, boy,” he growls, still angry, but not at Kieran. The anger’s at Bill. At Dutch. At all of them. At himself. He really can’t believe he went along with the whole thing last time. Can’t believe he had to be _convinced_ to let the kid stay, even though the kid stopped him from taking a bullet. “Think you can look tough? Growl a bit? Gonna go collect some debts. You can come with.”

Kieran stutters, stumbles. He’s still terrified, poor bastard, but he keeps on walking. For all he knows, Arthur’s planning on taking to the woods to kill him. All the kid says is “Yes, sir, Mr. Morgan, A-Arthur, sir. I-I can do that.”

Arthur’s surprised to find that Ghost, his white Arabian, ain’t among the horses. For a moment, that makes him stop all over again. She’s dead, he knows. He held her as she died, another who didn’t deserve it, another victim to Dutch’s ego and schemes, but since everyone else is here so should she be. He whistles for her, but there’s not so much as an answering nicker. Then he remembers he doesn’t have the mare yet. Didn’t find her until he went back up into the snow looking for that gunslinger and that bison. He’d wanted to kill two birds with one stone, and had ended up stumbling across her, like she was some phantom in the snow. He almost hadn’t believed she was real. Well, she can stay up there, he decides. Stay wild and free and unharmed. If there’s one thing he can change, then that can be it. He ain’t going to break anymore lives.

Instead of Ghost, there’s the Mahogany Bay Tennessee Walker he found up at the Adler Ranch. It ain’t got a name. He never got ‘round to it. Traded it in for that damn bloody beast of a Shire that took to ramming him into trees whatever chance it could get. Maybe he’ll keep this one for a little longer, he thinks. He can come up with a name later. Maybe he’ll even get Kieran to name it. Branwen the 2nd or somethin’. Strange how he can remember Kieran’s horses name, but he can barely remember having any conversations with the boy himself. 

“Hop on,” he says, checking the Walker’s girth and making his voice gruff. He might want things to be different, but he ain’t gone entirely soft yet. “I ain’t trustin’ ya with your own horse just yet.”

Kieran does as he’s told, and Arthur climbs up in front of him, gathers the reins, and clicks his tongue, urging the horse on and leaving the chaos of the camp behind him. Bill’s started shouting. Dutch is trying to calm everyone down. Javier is threatening to follow, although he makes no move. 

Arthur doesn’t need to speak to Strauss to know where he needs to go. Downes Ranch. Where everything changed. 

He urges the Walker into a canter and doesn’t look back, leaving the camp far behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who's been reading so far! I still haven't got a clue what I'm doing, so if it's too slow-paced, the characterisation is off, then please do let me know! I haven't written fanfic since my teens.
> 
> I'm not sure how close to the main missions I should stick. Not sure if "Ah ha! He was nice to the Downes'!" or "He didn't get knocked out and kidnapped!" is enough, whether I should write only about the missions, or if going in a completely different direction and lingering on other things is too much. 
> 
> Are there any events in the game (aside from the main ones) that you wished had turned out differently for Arthur? I'd love to know!


	3. Understanding

Arthur heads south, not north, away from the Downes’ ranch and towards Rhodes instead, and tries not to think about Sean’s death. It hasn’t happened yet. Maybe it never will. He ain’t planning, if the whole Rhodes thing happens, for Sean just go walking in there, even if it means wrestling the kid to the ground and tying him up. 

But that’s something to think about later. Right now he needs money and to figure out what he’s actually going to do with Kieran. He’s half tempted to take the boy to Saint Denis and dump him on a boat. He doubts he’ll be able to afford Tahiti, but anywhere but here’s better. They’re all better away from the gang than not. He thinks that maybe, just maybe he should work on getting them all out, as many as he can, out and away from Dutch.

On the edge of Rhodes, he draws the Walker to a halt, slips off and rifles through his satchel, checking to see just how much money he’s got. He can feel Kieran watching him, the terrified look on the boy’s face slowly edging into confusion and then curiosity, like he’s trying to work out just what Arthur’s doing. Arthur wishes he could work out that one, too. 

There’s a few dollars in his satchel, a watch, a couple of rings, a few belt buckles, all from looting dead O’Driscolls. He can sell them, he knows, but they ain’t going to come close to covering the cost of the Downes’ debt. He thinks about just cancelling it, making up some excuse for why he can’t get the money, but Strauss’ll just send someone else, like Bill or Micah who’ll simply speed up Downes’ death and probably kill the wife and son, too. He has to make sure the debt’s gone for good, and then see to it that Mr. Downes never has to take out another loan again. He just doesn’t know how he’s going to do it. Guy’s a charitable idiot who don’t care about himself. 

Arthur finds himself pacing, kicking up dust from the dirt road. It was so simple before. He never thought, just did, though look where that got him; him and half the gang dead. 

The Walker flattens its ears, still wary of Arthur and not at all comfortable with his sudden movements. Kieran leans forward to soothe the horse, murmuring meaningless nothings (Arthur chooses to ignore the mention of him being a big dumb brute) and the animal immediately perks its ears back up. Arthur thinks Kieran’s wasted in a gang. Should go work in some racing stable, become a trainer or something like that. Boy could make a fortune that way. An _honest_ fortune. Horses seem to like and listen to him. 

But that ain’t going to solve Arthur’s current money problem. That’s when he remembers the treasure maps, all leading to gold bars, and the fallen train and those weird statues. He had to go all over the place for them, but he remembers all the final locations where the gold bars are, knows he can sell them for a decent enough price. That cave behind the waterfall at Elysian Pool, the side of the cliff close to Fort Wallace, and the island in the lake next to Hamish’s cabin. That’ll give him a few thousand dollars and take away some of the pressure. Not much, but some.

Even now, Arthur can feel the time ticking away, pushing him ever closer to the things he don’t wanna have to relive. He knows he has to be back at the camp in time to go rescue Sean. That that one he can’t avoid. Oh, he was more than happy to miss the fight at the saloon, but he ain’t going to risk abandoning Sean. Who knows what will happen if he’s not there. He can’t risk it. So he’ll go to Rhodes, cash in the items at the Fence, get some supplies, and head off up to O’Creagh’s Run. It’s the easiest of the three locations and will take the least time. It’s a little further but it’ll be worth it, and, with Kieran following him, it’ll be less of a risk. He’s fairly sure that, unlike John, the kid can swim. 

Mind made up, he roughly shoves Kieran back and mounts the Walker again. The stallion immediately pins its ears back, none too pleased to suddenly be pushed back into action. They haven’t had much time to bond, Arthur mostly having left the Walker at the camp. It’s kind of hard bonding with a dead man’s horse, who’s had a history and a life before they’ve met. He’s always wondered if it belonged to Jake Adler and not just some random O’Driscoll before he got his hands on it- it’s strange for just one lone horse to be in the barn with a house full of O’Driscolls - but he was never able to bring himself to ask Sadie. Seems kind of fitting now, though, him and stuck together: a dead man’s horse for a dead man. Couldn’t be more perfect. 

They ride on in silence. It’s almost noon already, and Arthur thinks that means they’re going to have to camp the night at O’Creagh’s Run and head back to Rhodes in the morning, back to the Fence, then set off to the Downes’ ranch. _And then_ he can decide what to do with Kieran. He certainly ain’t planning on bringing him back to the camp with him. 

Rhodes is half deserted, a town still stuck in the clutches of the Civil War. He managed to set foot in it a few times after Sean’s death, but it was never easy. Strangely, though, this is harder and Arthur finds himself peering suspiciously at everyone, trying to see if he can spot any of the Gray boys. Might help if they have less to face later on, although he’s still convinced the gang will be better off staying as far from Rhodes as they can. Maybe the gold he’s found will be enough for Dutch. It exists, for a start, unlike the supposed Braithwaite and Gray treasure that drew Dutch in.

The idea of giving Dutch the gold, though-? It don’t feel right. They should have already earnt a passage to Tahiti ten times over by now, but it was - is - always one more plan, one more robbery, one more scheme. He’s starting to think that Dutch has never planned to settle down; that that’s the last thing the man wants. Arthur already knows his words are meaningless. Just thinking about it all brings back the sting. All those _years_ , all that loyalty, for nothing. Dutch still left him to die alone. 

“Stay here,” he tells Kieran as he draws to a halt in front of the general store, handing over the reins. He gives the boy a pointed look, stabbing a finger at him for emphasis. “You even think about leavin’ and I’ll slit your goddamned throat.” 

The threat comes easily, and it’s what’s expected. This is the Arthur everyone knows. He still doesn’t know how to be kind. Truth is, though, he hopes the words will scare Kieran into leaving, make him flee and do what they all expected him to do at the very beginning, but the boy is still there when Arthur exits the store with the supplies - tins of strawberries, a couple of cans of peaches, some canned salmon, and some cigarettes (he might as well start collecting those cards. It’ll be another source of money). 

“Mr. Arthur… M-Mr. Morgan, sir…” Kieran begins, turning a bright red as Arthur turns his attention on him. The boy seems to shrink into himself, and Arthur wonders how any of them could ever have thought he was an O’Driscoll. 

“Over there...by the gunsmith.. I thought I… I-I thought I heard someone, then thought I saw someone in the cellar, calling for help. I didn’t move, but...” 

Arthur remembers what happened the first time. The grief stricken gunsmith. He’d been passing through, exploring the country, long before Dutch had set his eyes on Rhodes. He hadn’t had much sympathy for the man, then, had just knocked him out, saved the boy, and then proceeded to rob the store. But grief, he realises, does funny things to a person. Look at him now: trying to claw back everything _he’s_ lost. He’s pretty sure he’s willing to do whatever it takes just to keep Kieran alive. Lenny, Hosea, and Sean, too. He ain’t going through it again, doesn’t think he can survive it. Everyone wants a second chance, a second go of things. They’re the same, him and the gunsmith, but at least he can really try and get them back where the gunsmith can’t, can only settle for a shitty imitation. Poor, desperate bastard.

Of course, it doesn’t stop Arthur sighing. He can still feel the time ticking away as more and more things are thrown at him. 

“You comin, then, boy?” he asks, offering Kieran one of his revolvers, even as he loosens the bandana around his neck. He’s not sure if he’s ever seen Kieran hold a gun, apart from that time he saved him, much less fire one, and the way the boy looks at it he’s pretty sure he ain’t never. It makes him wonder how much of what happened at Six Point Cabin was down to sheer luck. If Kieran had been able to protect himself, Arthur’s pretty sure he would have been able to resist getting kidnapped. 

When Kieran doesn’t move, Arthur pushes the gun into Kieran’s hand more firmly, and then starts to walk towards the gunsmith’s store. “Just hold it, look gruff, growl a bit, like I said. I ain’t askin’ you to commit murder.”

And he’s not. Maybe he can spin the story a bit when they get back at camp; make Kieran the hero of the hour. Maybe it’ll make Bill lay off him a bit, make the others open up to him. Maybe then Kieran won’t feel like such an outsider, although that’s going against his plans, he reminds himself. There isn’t going to be anymore Kieran and the gang. He’s going to make sure Kieran leaves and gets out of here. 

Kieran trails after, reluctant. Somehow, the move unwillingly reminds Arthur of Sean, of how completely different the two are; the way in which Sean swaggered through the town like he owned the place, right up until the moment his brains were blown out. That, he swears, is going to change. Sean ain’t dead yet. He still doesn’t know what’s happening, but Sean ain’t dead yet. 

“You take the lead,” Arthur says, shoving Kieran in front of him, and Kieran is back to stuttering and stumbling, but he does as he says, making his way into the gunsmith’s and pointing his gun at the owner.

What follows is the most bizarre robbery ever. Arthur takes no coin, no cash, not even the gun he remembers finding in the basement. As Kieran leads the kidnapped kid up the stairs, Arthur turns to the gunsmith. The man looks devastated, like his whole life’s been shattered all over again. 

Last time Arthur just knocked him out, leaving it at that, but, “I’m sorry,” he says. “For your loss, but this ain’t the way to deal with it. I had a son, too, once. Isaac.” That death had hardened him, hardened him too much perhaps. Maybe that’s why it took him so long to see how wrong the path Dutch was leading them down was; he’d just blocked everything out. “It don’t get any less painful, but it does get easier.” 

He doesn’t know what to say after that, is almost tempted to go to the sheriff’s office, but that won’t do nothing; will end just as badly. A hanging’s just another way to keep folks entertained, after all. Doesn’t take much to get them to schedule one. Kidnap? Holding someone against their will? Might just be enough of a reason to arrange one. So he leaves it, leaves the gunsmith weeping in the basement. Some people he just can’t help.

Soon enough, they’re back on the trail, taking the same route to the one he and Hosea followed on their hunting trip, through the hills and up the narrow, winding tracks, gravel and rocks crunching under the Walker’s hooves. At one point, he dismounts to give the horse a break. In the distance he can see the mountain, the one where he dies. It’s a weird feeling. It’s a good spot, though, he has to admit, doesn’t think he could have chosen a better place. At least he got to see the sunrise.

Kieran is silent throughout the trip, like he’s resigned himself to his fate and ain’t going to even try to argue his way out of being taken into the woods and shot. It’s clear they aren’t collecting any debts just yet. There’s no hint of civilisation, no sign of any other human being. It’s the perfect place to make someone disappear, although that ain’t Arthur’s plan.

Apparently saying that ain’t enough for Kieran to believe it, though. Arthur hears his sigh of relief the moment Hamish’s cabin comes into view, lights glinting in the windows. Buell’s grazing outside the cabin, cropping at the grass. It’s almost tempting to go visit, see the veteran alive and well, but Arthur’s sure it won’t be appreciated. There’s a difference between someone helping you out with your horse and a stranger rocking up at your front door, demanding to be let in. One’s welcome, the other’s a potential thread. 

Instead, Arthur settles for camping close to the lake, ordering Kieran to dismount whilst he gets what’s needed from the Walker’s saddlebags and also spreads out the bedroll. He don’t bother with the tent and doesn’t get a campfire going either. It’ll be canned salmon for supper followed by a dessert of tinned strawberries. He’s eaten worse. Sometimes he ain’t ate at all, especially towards the end.

The time, of course, passes in silence. Arthur wants to say something, but he ain’t never been the greatest conversationalist. He just don’t know _what_ to say, and he can’t remember Kieran being all that chatty either. The time he went fishing with him is a blur. What he does remember is the boy always floating on the edges of the camp, detached, always labelled ‘the O’Driscoll’ and pushed away. It really is better, therefore, for him to get away from the gang. He’ll have a chance to have a proper life, get some proper friends, people who actually care about him and won’t use his death for their own benefit. 

Again, there’s a well of fury aimed at Dutch and at Arthur himself at just the thought of him, and Arthur once again wonders how he could’ve been so blind for so long. Fuck. Even John saw it before him, and John’s never been known for his smarts. Well, he ain’t blind no more. He ain’t gonna just meekly follow along. He’ll shoot Dutch if he has to, before he lets anyone get hurt.

“Y-you alright, sir? M-Mr. Morgan?”

Kieran’s looking at him like he’s grown an extra head, and Arthur realises he’s scowling, and that for the last five minutes he’s been staring at nothing, caught up in memories… if they even are memories. He still ain’t got a clue what’s going on; how to explain this whole thing. It’s too real for a dream and not nice enough for Heaven. 

“Get some sleep,” he says roughly, indicating the bedroll, not quite able to meet Kieran’s eyes. The O’Driscoll’s had gouged them out, he remembers. He just hopes it was when the boy was already dead. “You’ll need it. Plannin’ on an early start in the morning. I’ll take first watch and wake you when I need you.” 

Kieran doesn’t argue, just settles back in the bedroll, back turned towards Arthur. Doesn’t take long for him to fall asleep. Kid’s too trusting, Arthur decides as he leans back against a boulder, his repeater rifle close by. He wants to write in his journal, needs to get the thoughts out, but he ain’t sure he’s ready to see what’s in it… or what’s not, to read the words of a person he no longer is. It’s still all too strange. 

His eyes are heavy and he finds himself drifting off, suddenly wracked by exhaustion. It’s his first full day awake and aware, and his brain is still struggling to catch up and process everything and figure out what the hell is going on. It’s quiet, peaceful here, and so he just lets himself go. He shouldn’t, but he simply can’t hold on anymore. 

Hours pass. Maybe it’s minutes. Maybe it’s just seconds. Either way, time passes and Arthur suddenly wakes to a loud, huffing sound. For a moment, he thinks it’s Kieran, thinks the kid must be snoring, though it sounds more like Bill, but then there’s a growl and the Walker whinnies in unease as something moves close. It ain’t human, but the sudden, sharp cry of pain that follows _is_ , and Arthur is up and rolling, grabbing for his repeater. The sun is slowly rising, the sky a mix of red and pink, all blending into each other. 

There’s another a cry, a yell, followed by a roar, and Arthur sees the bear, sees its teeth sinking through the bedroll, sees Kieran struggling, trying to untangle himself even as he yells again in fear. The bear rears back on its back legs, raises its paw. It’s the same bear that almost got Hosea, the one the old man was so determined to hunt. Spittle flies from its mouth as it lets out another roar. There’s a hint of red there amidst the white. Fresh blood.

All this Arthur notes in seconds. It’s like time has slowed down; is ticking away much slower. Everything is in slow motion. His ears ring. There’s an almost whooshing sound, getting higher and higher as the seconds pass and things start to speed up. The paw, nails sharp, is a foot from crushing Kieran’s head. A couple of inches. Closer and closer and closer. Now a couple inches. Now an inch. And Arthur is swinging his repeater up, aiming, marking an invisible ‘x’ in his mind and firing. One round, two, three, four, they slam into the beast’s head.

Everything is still in slow motion. For a moment, nothing seems to be happening. The beast is still moving, getting ready to tear Kieran limb from limb, and then suddenly it’s falling, like things have caught up. It tumbles to the side, dead, like the strings have suddenly been cut. It’s an easier fight than he remembers. 

Arthur, though, doesn’t spare a moment. Panic clutches at his heart. He’s messed up, he thinks, managed to get Kieran killed earlier. He’d forgotten about the bear, hadn’t thought it’d wander this close, thought it’d be there for him and Hosea.

“Boy!” he yells, throwing himself down beside the bedroll. There’s patches of red on it. “Boy, come on, get up.”

For a moment, there’s no movement. Everything’s still, and then Kieran finally moves, finally untangles himself from the blankets. He’s gasping, panicking, eyes blown wide as Arthur grabs him and quickly checks him over. The boy’s shirt is torn, but the cuts underneath are shallow enough, all things considered. Seems like the bedroll took the brunt of the attack. 

Arthur finally lets himself sit back, makes himself let go of the boy’s arm, makes himself breathe, his own heart hammering against his chest. The boy’s fine. He’s fine. It’s all okay. He can still change things. 

“You just like attracting trouble?” he snaps, though he can’t keep the relief out of his voice. He wants to laugh. He does laugh. “‘s’like you have a target painted on your back.”

Kieran stares at him, again like Arthur’s grown an extra head, like he doesn’t understand him, doesn’t know whether to be afraid of him. There’s a wounded, almost look, and then he too is laughing.

“Thought he was you for a minute,” the boy says. “Felt like the first time when you got me. Except he weren’t as ugly and didn’t smell so much.”

Already, flies are starting to gather around the bear. Arthur knows he’s gonna have to skin it soon, but his legs still ain’t working. He’s still so worried about losing. 

He wonders, as he sits, how he’s gonna tell Hosea that the trip he didn’t know about is cancelled ‘cause he’s already killed the bear. He wonders how he’s gonna explain any of this to Hosea.

It’s all just more to add to his growing list.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've always wondered if maybe that was the bear that killed Cal, Charlotte's husband. Apparently I like making connections, and apparently Kieran just wanted more screen time. I had planned on reaching the Downes' ranch, but that didn't work out. 
> 
> As always, thank you for reading and please do comment! Let me know if I should still continue!


	4. The Time You Have Left

There’s no boat, so Arthur ends up driving the Walker into the water and swimming it across to the island. The beast ain’t happy, but there’s nothing Arthur can do about that. He knows he’s gonna have to step on a few toes and upset more than a few people if this whole thing is gonna work out, so why not a few hooves as well? Better to be offended than dead. He makes a note, though, to give it a couple of carrots later. Maybe that’ll stop it from entirely hating him. If it’s anything to go by, he ain’t doing a good job of things. 

The gold is as easy to find as it was the last time, under a large stone, just sat there. It’s a wonder how anyone ain’t stumbled across it before now, but they ain’t and he takes full advantage of that as he grabs the gold bars, puts them in his satchel and breathes just that little bit easier, some of the pressure that has slowly been mounting gone. 

That’s a thousand dollars just there, more than enough to repay the Downes’ debt and give them a little extra, with enough left over to put towards getting the gang the hell out of here. He’s decided that Dutch definitely ain’t gonna know about the money. If he does, it’ll just disappear, Arthur knows. It’s clear Dutch’s only out for himself. Don’t care about no one else. Thinks he’s Robin of Hood, when really he’s the Sheriff, out to control everyone and carve out his own kingdom. 

It’s still incredibly hard for Arthur to stop himself from thinking about Dutch; to stop himself looking through all his memories and realising just how warped and messed up they are. He can’t do it. Everything’s tainted now. 

He can’t help but wonder if that whole thing with Eagle Flies weren’t the first time Dutch left him. There’s also the girl on the boat to think about. That can’t have been an accident. He remembers the old woman in Guarma, too. Wonders how similar the two instances were. If Dutch dispatched the girl with the same coldness. Arthur ain’t ashamed of being an outlaw, but there’s a line even outlaws ain’t supposed to cross, but Dutch...Dutch seems to be doing some kind of jig, dancing back and forth over that line when it suits him and making a great big show of how amazing he is while not caring who he tramples over and destroys.

 _I have a plan…!_ Arthur can almost hear Dutch’s words now. He wants to shove them up Dutch’s ass.

He realises he’s got that same expression on his face, that scowl, if Kieran’s face is anything to go by as he swims the Walker back over to him, but he just can’t help it. It’s like finding your hero, your reason for living, is a fucking hack and that everything ain’t got no meaning no more. He’s died once already, if that’s really what’s happened, but it’s like dying all over again and suddenly finding yourself in a completely different world. Maybe he dreamed his death, had some kind of vision, and has just had his eyes opened. Whatever the case, it ain’t gonna happen a second time. None of it.

“E-everything okay, s-sir? M-Mr. Morgan?” 

Arthur wonders if Kieran is ever going to stop stuttering and tripping over what to call him. The kid’s pulling at the bandage on his arm. Thankfully the cuts didn’t need stitching, but Arthur wrapped them nonetheless and also made sure that the boy drank some health tonic to stave off any infection. Bear had claws like Dutch. Can’t see the disease and dirt, but know it’s gonna grow and spread and take everything out. The whole mess with Cornwell, he thinks, the Grays and Braithwaites, Bronte, the Pinkertons and the army… It just kept on going and going and going. They could have got away a thousand times over, but no, that weren’t enough for Dutch. He just had to keep pushing. 

The bear skin gets thrown on the Walker’s back, Kieran wincing ever so slightly as the move tugs on his injury. He don’t complain, though, and it makes Arthur wonder if the kid screamed when he was tortured or if he kept silent, if he gave away their location or if the O’Driscolls knew about it already. They’d made enough enemies by that point for said enemies to talk to each other. Would only have taken one Lemoyne Raider to have told the O’Driscolls where the house was. Either way, Arthur hopes it was short, Kieran’s death, hopes it was more for show. Boy didn’t deserve being tortured. Boy didn’t deserve nothin’. Should’ve been Dutch with all his talk about sacrificing himself for them.

“Just get on,” he says, voice made gruff by the thoughts as he holds out his hand to Kieran, more determined than ever that he’s gonna get the boy out.

Kid just looks at him, but does as he’s told, hauling himself onto the Walker’s back. Arthur should just stop with the ‘the’ and simply call the horse ‘Walker’. Ain’t like he’s gonna come up with a better name. It was Hosea who named Boadicea. Some warrior queen from Britain. Arthur ain’t looking for a war this time, though, just a way out. Don’t want nothing to do with war. He just wants them all to be able to walk away alive and well. Maybe Walker is a fitting name.

The ride back to Rhodes feels longer than it should, and not just because Arthur insists on getting off and walking the horse every hour or so to give it a break. No, it ain’t that. He’s thinking again, remembering his first time visiting the Downes’ ranch, and he don’t want to admit it but he’s _scared_. Maybe he’s destined to get TB, and nothing he does is gonna change that. Maybe it won’t matter what he does. Maybe all Mr. Downes has to do is cough near him. He basically signed his own death warrant the last time; hanged himself all on his own. TB’s a lot like choking to death. Just longer, more painful and drawn out. Not like he didn’t - and still don’t - deserve it, but it ain’t gonna help him helping others. He’s just got to hope that what he’s trying now works. 

It’s easy enough to exchange the gold for cash. The Fence don’t say nothing, of course, just hands the cash over. Arthur’s wonders if he could get more for the gold, but a thousand dollars is a thousand dollars, and that’s more than he had this morning. He makes sure to count it out, check over it twice, three times, four. Every cent counts, after all. He can’t spare a dime.

And then they’re hitting the road again. It’s getting close to evening, but the sun’s still high and ain’t gonna fade for hours yet. He almost wishes it was dark, so he can just leave a note and the cash on the Downes’ doorstep and not have to come face to face with them again. He feels like that Scrooge guy he read about once in a book he borrowed from Dutch, Christmas Tale or something, revisiting all these ghosts of his past. But he ain’t changed his thoughts, his beliefs, ain’t suddenly become good, ain’t gonna run and fetch a turkey… he just wants people to be safe and away from Dutch. They’ve messed up enough lives already. It was always the plan to get out, and he’s going to make sure it actually happens this time. 

He don’t realise he’s not breathing until Kieran once again asks him if he’s okay, the boy’s voice filled with concern. Arthur wants to snap at him and tell him the only one he should be concerned about is himself, but the words stick in his throat. It’s like someone has grabbed him, has wrapped their hands around his neck, and is squeezing. Suddenly he can’t think, can’t do anything but clutch the reins.

He wants to bolt. He ain’t never shied away from anything, but this… this is too much. Everything that happened the last time, everything that’s gonna happen, that should happen flashes through his mind, scene after scene, disaster after disaster, mishap after mishap. Flash, flash, flash, flashflashflash _flashflashflashflash_. He can hear voices, shouts, cries, sees John turn to him that last night, knows that he ain’t gonna make it out… How can he change all that? What can he do? It’s too much. How can one tiny event be such a turning point?He feels faint again, but forces himself through it. 

There’s smoke rising from the chimney as Arthur draws Walker to a halt within the treeline, the ranch itself just out of sight. He orders Kieran to stay where he is, and then walks the rest of the way on foot. He ain’t worried about the boy running, and he needs the walk, needs the time to clear his head. He didn’t pay attention the first time, or at least didn’t think he did, but it’s surreal to see how everything is the same. It’s like walking through a dream. Or like everything froze right after he left. For a moment, as he finally reaches the ranch, he just stands there, not able to move. 

It’s the sound he notices first, same sound he heard the last time, except the sound continues in his head - the clang as he pushed the rake aside, as it hit the ground, the slap as he struck Mr. Downes across the face - the first blow, but not the last -, his own voice, yelling. It’s like the two times are blending together, like the scene’s playing in front of him, insisting that this is how things have to go. Arthur has to shake his head, force himself back to the present. It ain’t gonna be like the last time, he thinks determinedly, tightening his grip on the wad of notes he’s holding in his hand. It ain’t.

He clears his throat, makes himself take a step forward, and tries to pitch his voice so he won’t be perceived as a threat. “Mr. Downes?”

At least this Thomas Downes ain’t seen him beat a man to a pulp in Valentine. At least this one don’t know him. At least this one ain’t already judged him. Not that he was wrong.

Mr. Downes looks up from where he’s tending to the small patch of crops, and there’s no mistaking the anxiety that crosses his face. They might not have met yet, but Arthur knows what he must look like. Ain’t no mistaking what he is. He certainly ain’t no farmer or innocent citizen passing through. He thinks, then, that he should have left his gun belt with Kieran, but he didn’t think about that, and he still doesn’t think that would have changed anything. He don’t know how to be anything but what he is.

“Mr. Downes,” he repeats, holding up his hands. He tries to tell himself that it’s to show that he means no harm, and that he’s not, in part, protecting himself. _All it took was one small bit of blood..._ “I’m here about the debt.”

Wrong words. Wrong way to start it. Mr. Downes raises his rake, clutches it in two hands, his whole stance screaming danger.

“The debt will be paid when I can pay-” Downes begins, but Arthur doesn’t let him finish. Can’t. His heart is pounding, mouth’s gone suddenly dry. His hands are already shaking. He’s faced a lot over the years, and yet this is the most scared he’s ever been. It don’t make no sense, and yet it does; makes perfect sense. There ain’t gonna be another chance after this. This is it. He can’t let it go wrong. 

Behind him, he can hear the door open and close, can hear footsteps as Mrs. Downes and the son join them. He don’t look, don’t spare them a glance, just stares at Mr. Downes, wondering how he missed it, missed the TB. It’s clear the man ain’t well, clear that he’s sick. Everyone’s heard of TB, knows what it is. How did he miss it? 

“There ain’t nothin’ to pay, sir. That’s why I’m here.” Arthur’s still holding his hands up. He doesn’t dare move. There’s a fence separating him and Mr. Downes, but it doesn’t seem to be enough. Instinct tells him he should just give up on the plan, just shoot Downes and be done, eliminate the threat and keep the money, but he ain’t Dutch. He wants to pay them back for everything he put them through. It ain’t about guilt or making amends, it’s just… It seems like the right thing to do, like they’re people who actually deserve a little money. 

“I came to tell you the debt’s been paid an’ you don’t owe nothin’. In fact,” and his hands are still shaky as he quickly shows the notes, spreading them out in front for Downes to see. There’s five hundred dollars there. Mrs. Downes has come to stand beside her husband. Unlike him, she looks well, a change to the last time Arthur last saw her. She holds herself straight and proud, and it makes his hands shake more as the memories haunt him. _I’m ashamed_ … _Don’t go and get yourself killed because of your pride..._

“In fact,” he continues, trying to block out the memories. “Turns out you overpaid an’ we owe ya quite a bit…”

“Is this some trick?” It’s Mrs. Downes who speaks. Her hand is on Thomas’ shoulder. “Some sick joke? We will pay when we-”

“It ain’t a joke, Mrs. Downes.”

“I don’t believe you.”

There’s a hundred ways he could go about this, a thousand. He can keep trying and pretending that the debt’s been forgiven, but Mrs. Downes has always had a way of seeing through him. And he don’t wanna lie. He don’t want to lie about any of this. _All you can do now is decide the man you want to be._ Lying just causes more problems.

“Then don’t,” he says instead, finally crossing that gap and shoving the money into Downes’ hands. It’s hard not to flinch as his skin brushes the other man’s. Blood, he remembers. It was the blood. He’s safe. “Just take the money. For your charity. To help yourself an’... and others. Can’t help others if you don’t help yourself. Don’t…” he rushes on, seeing the questions form. “Don’t ask questions. Just take it. Money’s clean. Cleaner than Strauss’. Much. Just take the money and get out of here. Go where you’ll be appreciated, where people won’t just shove you aside an’ laugh in your face. _Please._ If you need to do somethin’ to accept the money, then do that. I don’t need the money. I don’t wan’ it. It’ll only sit in a bank an’ I’d rather it go to some use.”

An idea forms, then, and he’s rushing ahead once again before he can stop himself. He knows this ain’t gonna save Downes, that the man is still doomed to die, but he remembers what the doctor said to him. _The best thing is rest and getting somewhere warm and dry, and taking it easy._ That’ll never happen here. Maybe Downes can do what the gang can’t, head south, and have an actual chance at life.

“I know a Sister.” He doesn’t, but he will. She’s the one who changed everything; helped him see. She did more for him in those few meetings, he realises, than Dutch ever did. “Sister Calderón. She could use some help. Down in Mexico. There’s a lot of people down there who need helpin’, but few who wanna do it. An’ it’s warm there. Good for your lungs. You’re a good man, Mr. Downes. Don’t ask me how I know, but I do. An’ you’re wasted here.”

He’s met with silence. For a moment, he thinks he’s failed, that he’s failed a second time and hasn’t managed to change a thing: that they’ll refuse. Downes coughs, and Arthur can’t help but flinch this time, backing away a step. He can feel the old tightness around his lungs, like a shadow creeping closer, winding its way ever tighter. 

Again, it’s Mrs. Downes who takes the lead. Strong woman, he thinks, and he doesn’t know why it makes him think longingly of Mary. There’s a smile on her face. It’s small, but there. He wonders what it’s like to be tied to someone who don’t listen, who don’t care for themselves, and who puts everyone else first. Has to be hard. He thought that that was Dutch to begin with - selfless, there for everyone, willing to sacrifice everything for the greater good - but the man’s the opposite. Downes is worth ten of Dutch, and Arthur suddenly so desperately wants him to live. Dutch walked away from this when it should have been Downes.

“Thank you,” is all Mrs. Downes says. “ _Thank you._ ” 

But it’s all that’s needed. 

Downes stutters his thanks, too, seemingly overwhelmed as he grabs Arthur’s hand. It takes everything for Arthur not to instinctively strike out, pull his hand back and free himself, keep himself safe. They’re too close, far too close. There’s still a risk and he doesn’t want to die again. Oh, he can say all the pretty words he wants, but his first reaction will always be to fight and kill, to put himself first. He ain’t a good man and never will be. 

His reaction chills him, and again he feels that panic and that worry that has been bubbling from the start. All it’ll take is one little misstep for everything to go wrong. 

“We would love it if you stayed for dinner. It’s the least we can do,” Downes continues, oblivious to Arthur’s inner turmoil. He’s indicating the ranch. His steps are lighter, his expression, too. Suddenly he’s not so pale. He’s already about what he can do with the money, who he can help. 

Arthur shakes his head as he quickly pulls away, widening the gap between them once more.

“I appreciate it, but I can’t. Still plenty of things for me to be doin’. I’ll let Sister Calderón know I’ve spoken to you, an’ she’ll get back to you.”

He doesn’t wait for them to answer, but hastens away. They’ve got the money and it’s all in their hands now. Nothing more he can do. There’s a whooshing, ringing sound in his ears again, and he forces himself to slow his pace along with his breathing. He swallows the urge to pat himself down, check himself over for any signs of TB. Even if he’s still managed to get it, the signs won’t show yet. There’s nothing he can do but wait.

Heart still whirring, he follows the path away from the ranch and back to where he left Kieran and the horse. 

Except now they’re not alone.

Arthur stops, freezes. “ _John?_ ” 

John pushes away from the tree he’s been leaning against, expression hard. It just makes his scar look worse.

“ _Arthur,_ " he says. “Think you’ve got some ‘splainin’ to do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's only 3 chapters later than planned, but finally got around to the Downes' ranch (and was like "shit, what do I do now?"). I hope it's not too terribly disappointing (although I think it probably is). Now it's going to take me about twenty chapters to get around to saving Sean.
> 
> As always, thank you for reading. Thank you to everyone who has commented, left kudos, subscribed, and bookmarked. Please do keep commenting to let me know what you think!


	5. You Left Me

Arthur doesn’t even get the chance to respond before John - _Marston_ \- is dragging him away, one hand wrapped firmly around his arm. Man’s grip’s like iron, and Arthur has to fight the urge to pull away, to retaliate, even as he’s slammed back against a tree. Pain flares brightly, but it ain’t nothing like the last pain he remembers, ain’t nowhere near the burning, choking agony that came just before dying, and so he bears it and simply glares at his wouldbe brother, wondering how the hell they’re gonna get there, how they’re ever gonna get to that point again, because he’s suddenly aware of how much he can’t - couldn’t - stand _this_ Marston. Bastard’s insufferable. Bastard’s always been insufferable, but at the end-? He was one of the few to speak reason and sense. 

Marston slams him back again, seemingly trying to dash his brains out, and this time Arthur can’t help but grunt as another wave of pain shoots down his spine. Again, he finds himself fighting the instinctive urge to fight back, to knock Marston down; knows that he should do it, but he can’t. Can’t hurt him. This is _John_ , and he gave his life so John could live.

It’s too late, anyway. Marston’s arm is suddenly braced against his chest, pinning him there. Even if he tried, Arthur can’t move. Skinny little shit’s always been stronger than he looks. Marston’s face is close enough that Arthur can smell his breath, feel the other’s hair brushing against his cheek.

Marston’s shaking.

For a moment there’s silence. Neither says nothing. They’re out of sight, out hearing range of Kieran. It’s just them. 

Arthur’s gaze traces Marston’s face, following the line of his scar, before he meets his eyes. He never really paid much attention to Marston before. Avoided him those first few months down from the mountain, still angry about making them risk their lives again. Now he can see that Marston looks anxious. He looks tired, too, like he’s slept about as much as Arthur, which is to say barely. 

“What the hell you think you’re playin’ at?” Marston finally manages to rasp out, giving Arthur one last shove before he breaks away. He pulls his hat off and starts pacing, before finally turning back, pulling at his hair. Like he don’t know what to do with himself.

Arthur wants to tell him to stop fidgeting, that that ain’t gonna intimidate him into speaking, but instead he just shrugs as he searches through his satchel for a cigarette, and lights it. He realises he ain’t smoked in days. “What you think I’m playin’ at?”

The look Marston gives him is one of loathing, of disbelief and anger. “ _Kieran?_ You just decided to go waltzin’ off with a fuckin’ O’Driscoll?”

“He’s no more an O’Driscoll than you or I, an’ you know it.”

Marston’s hands fall down by his side. He still looks worried. “Bill’s fumin’. He ain’t happy that you dragged the boy off. Thinks he was close to breakin’ ‘im.”

Arthur just snorts, and Marston shoots him another look, takes a step forward and then stops. 

“ _What the hell are you playin’ at, Arthur?_ ” Marston’s voice is a snap now, rising with every word. A bird spooks from a nearby tree, alarmed by the shouts. “Dutch ain’t happy either. Sent us out to look for you when you didn’t come back. Lucky it’s me that found ya. Bill? I think he’d use those tongs on you. An’ Micah? _He don’t need no excuse!_ ”

Shit, Arthur thinks, but Marston ain’t finished. It seems like the dam has broken and the words are just spilling out. 

“Dutch thinks the boy knows where Colm is hidin’, an’ you just ran off with him-”

Despite the worry suddenly curling through him, Arthur can’t help but laugh at that. “Him?” He nods in the direction they left Kieran. “You think Colm would talk to _him_?”

But even as he speaks his mind is whirring. It’s too early for this. Far too early. Dutch _trusts_ him. But then he has to wonder if Dutch has ever trusted anyone. He thinks of everything that Dutch has done, how easy it is for him to suddenly turn on someone. He thinks of Eagle Flies, Bronte, the old woman in Guarma. Always twisting things, using people, disposing of them. But that was only after Hosea died. Things only started to fall apart after that, but… but Arthur knows that ain’t true. Only got to look at the girl on the boat and the way Dutch destroyed that Braithwaite woman. Didn’t have to burn her house down. Didn’t have to go so far. Didn’t have to kill her.

It leaves Arthur cold, and he wonders why he didn’t think about what would happen. But he knows the answer to that, too. He’d seen Kieran’s death, and that meant he couldn’t just leave him. Kid deserved - _deserves_ \- to talk. He can talk to Dutch, he thinks, make him understand. 

Marston’s staring, and Arthur realises that the man must have said something, carried on talking. He shrugs his shoulders again, wincing, and Marston lets out of breath. Arthur can see his hands twitch, as if he wants to slam Arthur against the tree again; knock some sense into him. 

“I said,” Marston says, jamming his hat back on his head instead. “I don’t think Dutch sees sense when it comes to Colm. All he sees is Annabelle. He was real mad when he didn’t get Colm near Ewin Basin. Thinks the O’Driscoll boy must know something ‘cause he was with ‘em. An’ then you just went. Think he thought you were gonna have a talk with the boy, but then you didn’t come back, an’ now-? He’s tryin’ to hide behind concern for you, but he’s as mad as Bill.” 

Arthur wonders how Marston knows all of this, but Marston’s been suspicious of Dutch a lot longer. Makes sense that he watches him more. Either way, Arthur decides, he ain’t taking Kieran back. Better he’s away from the gang, period.

He finds himself leaning against the tree once more. Needs it to support him, because suddenly his legs feel weak, his chest once again tight. He thought he’d sorted things with the Downes, thought he could breathe again, thought he’d have more time to decide what to do next, but of course not. Of course fucking not. Things ain’t never that easy. Seems like he’s messed things up even more, like he was more blind about Dutch than he thought.

Shit, he thinks again. Shit, shit, _shit_. It’s _his_ hands that are shaking now. He ain’t scared of Dutch, but he’s scared for Kieran, thinks they’ll treat him real rough now if they get him back; that they won’t give him a chance.

The gang ain’t all that different from any other gang. Oh, it started out different, but Bill? Micah? They don’t care about protecting the innocent, robbing the rich to give to the poor. Bill would have gone through with castrating Kieran if Kieran hadn’t talked, and Arthur ain’t sure if _he_ would have stopped him the last time. He weren’t so different from them, Micah and Bill. He’d got cold. Hard. And that had been wrong.

Arthur ain’t sure about Javier either, not after what happened at Beaver Hollow. He ain’t sure what to think about him, but he wonders if Dutch would have let Micah’s friends, Cleet and Joe, join the gang full time; that the gang ain’t about giving a family to those who need it anymore, but about how far people are willing to go for money. It ain’t a place he wants Kieran. It ain’t a place he wants any of them. 

Somehow, he manages to steady his hands and take another drag from his cigarette. Marston’s back to pacing, and Arthur lets him. He almost, almost wants to join him, or go running back to Kieran to check if he’s all right. He ain’t got the money to make a move yet, but suddenly he wants to tell Marston to grab his things, get Abigail, Jack, Lenny, Hosea, and anyone else he can, and flee, because they can’t wait, there’s no time.

It ain’t good to cross Dutch, but he’s just… he’s just got to make it look like he ain’t crossed him. Figure something out, bring something back. Hanging Dog Ranch, he thinks. It probably ain’t where Colm is, but it’s where a lot of O’Driscoll’s are. He remembers going there with Sadie, remembers it being overrun with them. That’s better than anything Kieran has to offer, far better than Six Point Cabin, which was yet another dead end. He don’t much remember how Dutch reacted to that, too busy exploring the countryside, trying to get leads, but he remembers Dutch barely did anything to welcome the boy to the camp. Didn’t try.

Kieran really don’t deserve that a second time. 

It’s decided, then.

So “Well,” Arthur finally says, trying to sound more confident than he feels. He even manages a smile as he pushes away from the tree and grabs John’s shoulder, spinning the man ‘round to face him, “Dutch’ll be glad to know I know where Colm is, then, won’t he? Some place north of Strawberry.”

Marston looks at him suspiciously. “He tell you that?”

Arthur thinks about lying, but Marston only needs to speak to Kieran to know it ain’t true, and so he just shakes his head. “No.”

“Then?”

It’s Arthur’s turn to pull at his hat, tipping it down further so almost cover his eyes. He can’t quite look at Marston, at John. _You left me. You left me to die….You’re my brother,_ the words echo. “I can’t… I can’t tell you, but I just know, alright?”

Before John has a chance to reply, Arthur carries on, “You just got to do one thing for me. Before we go back to camp.” He figures it’s better if there’s two of them to watch Kieran’s back, and he thinks… he thinks... _you’re my brother_ the words echo again… He wants that brother. He needs that brother if he’s gonna get through this. He weren’t ready to admit it the last time, not until the end, but he is now.

John sighs. “Alright. What is it?”

“Come with me to Valentine. Get the train to Saint Denis. I’ve got a job for Kieran. You know things ain’t been right since Blackwater.”And they really ain’t. He wishes he knew what really happened on that boat, wishes he was there.

It’ll use up more money going by train, but it’s quicker, and they ain’t likely to encounter any of the others that way either. He can’t help but laugh at the thought. Didn’t think he’d end up the fugitive quite this early. 

There’s a frown on John’s face, like he wants to question, say something else, but he just sighs again and nods, and sets off towards where they left Kieran. “Alright.”

“An’ there’s somethin’ else,” Arthur continues. He doesn’t think Dutch ever went where he plans to take Kieran. “You’ve gotta say I killed him.”

John turns. “ _What?_

“I threatened him, pushed him around a bit.” He knows that might not be convincing, with the speech he gave back at the camp, but he’s sure he can work something out. “Was a bit too rough. There was an accident, an’ I killed him. Buried him somewhere. You saw the grave. He can’t go back, John. You want him to end up like us? You hate your life. I know you do.” 

A myriad of emotions cross John’s face. For a moment, Arthur thinks that John ain’t gonna do it, that he’s just gonna leave, say it’s too much, but John just grins, shakes his head all over again and laughs. He pats Arthur’s shoulder, squeezes. They’re close enough again that their chests are almost touching. 

“You might be the craziest son of a bitch I know, but you’re a good man, Arthur. I’ll do it. Always knew there was a reason Mary liked ya.”

 _Mary_ , Arthur thinks. He doesn’t want to think about Mary; he doesn’t want to stop thinking about her, but that’s another problem for later. Along with everything else. Like the fucking serial killer down the road.

...Thinking of _that_ crazy bastard and just how close they are makes Arthur suddenly push John and quicken his step to get back to Kieran as a small amount of fear twists in his gut and turns it cold. Whole place is fucked up, and he should never have come back. Should’ve stayed dead.

Thankfully Kieran is still where they left him, chatting quietly to Walker and Old Boy, though his eyes widen as he hears their approach, and he pales. Marston holds his hands up before Kieran can stutter anything out and grabs Old Boy’s reins from him. 

Arthur checks his guns, making sure they’re loaded, before he follows after Marston and holds out a hand. Another idea has formed in his mind. John raises an eyebrow, questioning, and Arthur just rolls his eyes.

“Just give me a hand, will ya?” He doesn’t look at John as he turns to Kieran, who’s stepped closer to Walker, seemingly trying to hide behind the animal. The horse flattens its ears and bares its teeth, which only reaffirms Arthur’s decision. Seems like they’ve got a bond. “He’s yours. Might as well get used to ridin’ him on your own.”

“I-is that true? Are you sure? Really? Thank you, Mr. Morgan...Arthur… sir! Thank you!”

John raises his eyebrows even more as Kieran mounts the horse, but offers Arthur his hand and pulls him up behind him. His hands are rough, but clean, though Arthur can still see the blood from the last time, from something that hasn’t yet happened. _You left me! You left me to die!_

How could they have ever trusted Dutch?

“I think you hit your head harder than we thought,” John mutters as Arthur settles behind him and wraps his arms around his waist, unused to riding behind anyone. “That, or you’ve always been a soft bastard. It’s you that buys Jack all that candy, ain’t it?”

Arthur doesn’t reply, and Marston sighs all over again, before clicking his tongue and urging Old Boy forward. 

It doesn’t take them long to arrive at Valentine Station, and Arthur can’t help but look around for Mary. The letter hasn’t arrived yet, but he knows it’ll be soon. There’s no sign of her, and he isn’t sure whether or not he’s disappointed. Oh Mary, is all he thinks. Be well. The grief from her last letter resurfaces, but he stamps it down. Maybe this time he can run away, can be with her, once everything’s sorted.

They buy the tickets easily enough, although Arthur’s heart starts to race all over again, unable to stop himself from thinking that something’s gonna happen. Nothing goes right for them. Or it didn’t. Or if one thing did, then the next thing ended up a complete shitfest. All the disasters, all the things that went wrong…He can’t think of one thing that went right. It means that this, surely, will be just the same, but they get the horses loaded quickly and take their seats with no problem. 

The ride to Saint Denis is just as quiet, and Arthur lets himself relax inch by inch. The weariness grows, enough that he tunes out Kieran and Marston, who’ve decided to talk about horses (of course), and lets himself drift. His head slips, and the next thing he knows he’s waking up at Saint Denis, the whistling of the train suddenly loud. His stomach lurches at that, and he bolts upright, lashing out at the person who’s been shaking him. 

“Steady! Steady!” Marston sounds like he’s talking to a horse. “Just wanted to let you know we’re here. An’ that you were droolin’ all over my shirt. Think the shoulder’s stained. But we’ve gotta move.”

“Fuck off.”

But John’s teasing helps to steady him a bit, draw him back from the past, the future, whatever the hell it is, because for a moment he _was_ back at that final robbery, watching the train thunder past, having to dash to catch up, hearing about John falling, seeing Sadie’s face, Abigail’s reaction... That can’t happen again. He won’t let it. Not this time. 

Kieran’s eyes are darting between them, and Arthur can feel his cheeks heating up. He pulls his hat back over his eyes and stands, once again angry with himself that he let things slip. If he carries on like this, he’ll get himself killed before he gets a chance to help anyone. He can’t keep fading away, getting stuck in memories. He’s got to focus. 

This time, Saint Denis isn’t as much of a shock. If anything, he takes comfort from it, from the way it’s so unchanged, so unchangeable, so solid. Despite everything, despite what he normally thinks of cities, it’s here that some of his best memories happened. Meeting with Mary, going to the theater. Sister Calderón. That crazy French bastard, Charles Châtenay, the eccentric Aldridge, the even madder Marko Dragic, who led him north to Charlotte. Brother Dorkins...

Suddenly, Arthur feels dizzy and sick all over again, completely and utterly overwhelmed. He wonders how the hell he’s going to help all those people. It feels like he ain’t got time, like the clock’s ticking ever faster, running away from him. There’s too much to do, too many problems to solve, too many things to try and fix and sort out and make sure actually _happen_ , because Mrs. Balfour, he knows, won’t survive if he don’t go and see her.

And she saved his life, and he owes her.

“Arthur? _Arthur?_ ” It’s Marston again. He’s stepped forward and is reaching out a hand as if to steady him. “You sure you alright?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Arthur says quickly, waving him away. He really can’t show any weakness. “I’m fine.”

In the time it’s taken him to get off the train, Kieran’s fetched and unloaded the horses. He’s looking around them as if they’ve arrived at some place like Tahiti, and Arthur remembers that Kieran never actually got a chance to see Saint Denis. He wonders how far south the boy has actually ventured. That’s seems to be all he’s doing at the moment: wondering and trying to think and work things out. He really ain’t doing things fast enough. 

“Why… Why we here, sir? If I can ask, M-Mr Morgan?”

 _Yeah, Arthur,_ John’s expression seems to say as he also looks at him. _Why are we here?_

“I’ve found you a job. At the stables.” He’s already leading them to it, thinks if he throws enough money at the stable owner, the man’s bound to accept. He’ll be getting more than just money in the bargain, too. Kieran’s one of the best horseman Arthur’s ever met. He’s an asset to any stable. They should be payin’ him, not the other way ‘round. 

But Kieran’s expression falls and he shakes his head. “I-I was hoping to come back with you. Be a...a part of the gang. I-”

“It ain’t right for you, kid. Trust me. You’re better off here. There ain’t gonna be a gang anymore.” Boy looks heartbroken, but all Arthur can see is the horse galloping up to Shady Belle, its rider headless, eyes gouged out. 

“I’m gettin’ out. _We’re_ gettin’ out.” He hears John’s sharp, indrawn breath at that, but carries on anyway, ignoring and refusing to look at him. He was going to have to tell him at one point, why not now? “Me, John, his family, Lenny, Hosea, Charles, Mary-Beth - I-I know you like her.” Please, kid, he think. “We’ll come get you, but you’ve got to stay here. It makes it easier for us.”

Kieran looks to John, but John still doesn't say anything, and, if possible, the boy deflates even more, and then just nods. Kieran, accepting as always. Too trusting, too willing. It makes Arthur even more determined to see that the boy gets a life. 

“You’ll come back? You promise that?”

“Promise.” Arthur ain’t sure, but right now he’d promise his soul just to see the kid safe; one less person for Dutch to destroy. 

After that, it’s almost too easy. A stableboy’s just quit and the stable owner is run off his feet. His eyes light up at the money Arthur shoves at him, the money Arthur has left over after the Downes, and doesn’t hesitate to give Kieran a job. Room and board, too. Arthur hadn’t planned on giving him it all, but this is Kieran, and no price is too much to keep him alive. Even if it’s just one, if he doesn’t manage it with any of the others, it’s still better than he did last time. 

The stable owner becomes positively enthusiastic as Kieran quickly and correctly answers all the questions fired at him. Arthur leaves them both chatting over a black Arabian stallion, trying to ignore his own sudden reluctance, and goes back to Marston, pausing only to transfer the bear skin to Old Boy.

They don’t talk as they head further into the city, ending up at Doyle’s tavern. Arthur can’t help but remember all the rats, but right now that doesn’t bother him. John’s got the same grim expression on his face. He turns to confront Arthur the moment they’ve sat down. 

“Leavin’, huh? Me, you, Abigail, Jack, and the others-? Fancy tellin’ me a little about this plan of yours, and why you’ve suddenly decided you wanna head somewhere else?”

“Yeah, Morgan. Fancy tellin’ me, too?”

Arthur spins in his seat, and turns to find himself facing Bill. Williamson has his gun out and has it pointed at Arthur.

The whooshing sound is back, the ringing in his ears drowning everything out, turning voices to whispers. Not that there’s any voices. The whole saloon has gone silent. Even the piano player has stopped. A rat runs over the counter, but no one notices. All eyes are on them.

“Don’t know what you’re talkin’ ‘bout, _Bill._ ” Somehow, Arthur manages to keep his voice calm. It’s barely above a whisper, but he manages to put a growl into it; a warning. “Think you must’ve misheard. Ain’t that right, Marston?”

But the gun doesn’t lower. 

“Oh-ho, don’t think I’m that stupid, Morgan. Knew there was a rat. Dutch suspected someone talked about the Blackwater job.” 

And Arthur’s stomach is back to being like ice. It’s too early for that, too, too early for Dutch to think there’s a rat. The Pinkertons haven’t even turned up yet. Milton hasn’t made himself known. 

“An’ you weren’t on the boat, Morgan,” Bill continues. He takes a step closer, finger on the hammer, ready to pull back. His aim never wavers. However he got thrown out the army, Williamson is still a good shot. “Weren’t nowhere to be seen. Safe, you were. Funny that. An’ then you go capture that boy. Like some good distraction. Stops us from looking for Colm. Only for you to let the boy go.” Williamson pauses, grins, though there’s no smile in it, and Arthur thinks about how he never helped them, how he sided with Dutch at Beaver Hollow, how he let Micah shoot Mrs. Grimshaw. “You know how badly Dutch wants Colm. I’m startin’ to think that you’re keepin’ things from us, Morgan. How do you think Dutch is gonna react to that?”

Bill had been so ready to torture Kieran, too, had contributed to Sean’s death, was convinced John was the traitor, believed Micah. _Micah_ , of all people. Just thinking about it makes Arthur’s anger grow.

“I don’t think Dutch’ll believe you, Bill.”

Arthur doesn’t know when he stood, but he’s standing, John beside him, their shoulders touching. Even now, even though they still can’t stand each other, John’s willing to stand beside him, with him. _You’re my brother._

“Just leave it, Bill,” John adds.

Williamson snorts. “An’ how’s he gonna react to you wantin’ to break up his gang? Don’t think he’ll mind me shootin’ you. Maybe he’ll even think I’m doin’ him a favor. Can’t have no rats around.”

The gun lifts ever so slightly. Arthur knows it’s now aimed at his head. The roaring, whooshing sound increases, mixing with the pounding of his heart. He forgets to breathe as everything suddenly drains of colour, turns almost yellow. Arthur hears the hammer click. He can’t risk it, he thinks. He can’t risk any of their lives. Not for Bill. Maybe it ain’t just Dutch who’s mad. This shouldn’t be happening. Not with Kieran. Not over some poor idiot of a boy. Everyone knows he ain’t got nothin’ to tell. Everyone knows he don’t matter, ain’t worth nothin’.

Time slows. 

Arthur sees Bill’s finger tighten on the trigger. 

The crack that follows is resounding, booming, breaking over the roar of everything else. 

And Arthur watches as Bill falls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter may have run away with me a little (why one should never write at 1am in the morning). Hopefully Arthur's "splainin'" wasn't too dull! Obviously, that didn't go the way I'd initially planned and John didn't say anything I was expecting him to. And somehow I think this is going to push Sean even further back. Ah! 
> 
> As always, thank you for reading. Thank you to everyone who has commented, left kudos, subscribed, and bookmarked. Please do keep commenting to let me know what you think!


	6. Breathe

Everything is still in slow motion.

It takes an age for Bill to reach the ground, for his grip to loosen and his gun to drop. It doesn’t just fall, but somersaults slowly through the air, the light glinting and reflecting off the metal barrel with every turn. It pretty, almost, and it almost, almost distracts from the blood, which suddenly blossoms from Bill’s chest. Just above his heart, Arthur thinks. Just a hint at first, and then more and more and more, a trickle that turns into a little more, that turns into a splash and then a spray, that then seems to suddenly explode, erupt, and fly out in all directions. It splatters the walls. It splatters the ground. It splatters the people standing near by. It’s almost too much blood for one person. Too much for them to survive.

The whirring, whooshing sound is getting louder and louder, faster and faster, the yellow flickering and fading. The blood washes red, and then Arthur is slammed back into his body, back into real time as someone’s start screaming. A woman. He hadn’t realised there were women in the saloon. 

Bill is now on the ground, and he’s not moving. Just like Sean. Just like Lenny. Just like Hosea, Molly, Susan. _Blood. So much blood. So much death._ Just like John will be, because Micah’s got to have reached John and Ja-

“Come on! We gotta get out of here! _Now!_ ”

There’s a hand around his arm, pulling him, shoving him towards the back room, down the short corridor and into the courtyard beyond. John’s gun is still out as he twists, aims it at those standing in the doorway, those threatening to follow. The tip of the gun is still glowing, warm from the shot. 

Arthur’s own gun is still in its holster. He knows, because he finally reaches for it.

“Get out of here! Go!” John continues to yell at those that have gathered. Some push past, fleeing. Others still stand, undecided. “Get! I ain’t gonna hesitate about shooting you, too!”

Bill, Arthur thinks. Bill. _Bill. BillBillBillBillBillBillBILLBILL **BILLBILLBILLBILLBILLBILL**_. He ain’t never liked Bill, hates him for what happened, hates him for shoving aside reason for blind fucking loyalty, for refusing to think for himself and to see what was right in front of him, but that ain’t enough of a reason for him to kill him. He didn’t do this, didn’t save Kieran, just to go and kill someone else. He ain’t God, to pick and choose and decide. He ain’t-

-He ain’t able to breathe. He really ain’t. He can’t breathe, he can’t breathe, he can’t breathe. It feels like the TB is back, and Arthur doubles over, gasping, gagging, trying to reach for a breath, the scene replying over and over in his mind. The bullet hitting, the blood spraying out. He’s killed a lot of men, ain’t never flinched over it, but it’s different when you know them.

And when you weren’t the one to kill him. His gun, he thinks again, is still in its holster.

“John!” he manages to gasp, looking up, even as John grabs him again and pulls him forward even more determinedly. “What did you _do?”_ That weren’t the plan, he wants to say, weren’t supposed to happen, but the words stick in his throat, bitter, like ash. He can’t speak of plans. It reminds him too much of Dutch, _I have a plan. I had a plan. Have a little faith,_ so instead he pins at glare at the man he gave his life for, who’s now standing weren’t he ain’t supposed to be.

Because this ain’t supposed to be happening, he thinks again. He’s dead. Arthur died. He died watching the sun rise, knowing he’d done all he could. 

And now Bill’s dead, too. 

John’s wearing the same expression he did that night, back on the mountain, face drawn, lips set in a thin line, eyes hard, all grim determination. 

“He didn’t give me much choice! He was gonna _shoot_ you!” There’s a hint of the young John, too, in the way his body suddenly hunches, the way it turns in on itself, shoulders slumping, at complete odds to his expression, like he knows he’s only going to be scolded more, but he still ain’t sorry, ain’t never gonna be sorry. Defiance and surrender all wrapped up in one. He ain’t sorry, but he’ll submit to whatever Arthur has to say or do. 

How many times has he, Arthur, been like that with Dutch? How many times has he protested, objected, held his head up high, only to give way, give in and follow when everything says no, because he ain’t got no other choice?

They were kids, he thinks, when they joined the gang. Fucking kids. They didn’t ever have a choice. 

But Bill did, Bill has, and Bill chose this.

And with that, any anger Arthur has dies, and he picks himself up, forces himself to breathe, to get moving, to _run_ just as whistles start to sound. And shouts. More shouts. More footsteps. Police. Wouldn’t think they would come for a bar fight. For a brawl. For yet another drunken duel. But the Pinkertons are already here, already looking, already waiting for Dutch to stumble and fall, even here in Saint Denis. Dutch could be anywhere, after all. 

John lets out his own whistle, and Old Boy comes running, and then they’re on his back and running, running, running, running north, through the swamp, up through Bluewater Marsh. They cross into New Hanover. They don’t stop, don’t look back, just keep on going. 

They only slow some miles on, and Arthur recognises the area, Van Horn’s lighthouse visible in the distance, and directs John to the old, abandoned house. The strange creature, made from bits and pieces and sewn all together, is missing as they climb on the wagon and up onto the porch roof, and then duck through the window into the room. There’s just the desks, the table, and one stuffed bird. No monster out of some Greek myth. Arthur picks the bird up and puts it back down. It’s a Northern Cardinal. Maybe all those birds and squirrels he sent in the post didn’t go to the exhibition, but came here instead. He ain’t found the poster yet, he remembers. Ain’t started on the lists.

“Don’t go lookin’ for an apology,” John says, pulling Arthur from his thoughts. “I ain’t givin’ one. I ain’t sorry. He was gonna shoot you.” 

Arthur knows that, knows that for definite now. Like them old gunslingers. He shot them before they could shoot him. Didn’t want to, but he did. He had no other other choice. It’s a split-second decision. There’s no time to think. You just got to act. No, not act, _react_. And that’s what John did, too. Only difference is, they knew the person drawing the gun. 

Only difference is, it weren’t supposed to be like this, but there’s nothing that can be done about that now. 

And so “I ain’t,” he says finally. John’s looking at him, getting restless. He realises he’s been quiet too long. “I ain’t lookin’ for no apology. I just…” He struggles to find the words, and can’t help but feel the ghost of a hand tightening around his chest again. He makes himself breathe, slowly, deeply, one breath, two, three, even as he scrubs at his face, trying to get rid of the headache he can feel brewing there. “I just… _Why?_ Why’d he do that? It don’t make no sense.”

Because it’s too early. It’s far too early for all the suspicions to have started. Everyone was content, happy, full of hope, glad to be out the snow. Everything was looking up. No one was thinking about Blackwater. They were just glad to be fucking _out_ and safe and away.

“Over an O’Driscoll boy?” he continues, shaking his head, as if somehow shaking it will shake all the nonsense out and make everything clear, though nothing’s been clear since he woke up. It’s all been a mess. They can’t really have thought that Kieran, the gentle buffoon, knew where Colm was? They waited weeks, too, to interrogate him. Any news would be old news, Dutch had to know that, so why-?

None of it makes sense. Everything. Everything he now looks back on. 

It’s Arthur’s turn to start pacing. He only wanted to change small things, stop people dying, and instead he’s gone and got someone else killed, someone who weren’t supposed to even get hurt. “What was he even doin’ in Saint Denis? Why...why the hell would I be in Saint Denis?”

“You know in Blackwater?” John says. He isn’t looking at Arthur, but searching through the drawers, setting the few tonics he finds on the table. The faint screeching, scraping of the drawers sets Arthur on edge, but John seems oblivious, just carries on talking. “He used to go up to Strawberry. Think he even went south to Armadillo a time or two just so he wouldn’ run into any of us. He don’t like us watchin’ him drinkin’. We always mock him. Make fun of him. His dad was a drunk. An’ he always said don’t wanna be like his dad, but there ain’t no escapin’ family. We all end up being what we don’t want.” He pauses there, and Arthur thinks he’s thinking of Jack and Abigail, and of the time that also destroyed their - his and John’s -friendship. “And he was mighty angry when you took Kieran. Said he needed a drink, an’ clearly he meant it. Why go to Valentine and risk runnin’ into Uncle or… or me, or Lenny, or even _Micah_? Especially when he was supposed to be searchin’ for you and Kieran? Just blind luck that he found us, an’ heard us-”

“-talking about betrayin’ Dutch,” Arthur finishes for him.

He thinks he can see it from Bill’s point of view. Bill’s always been loyal to Dutch, blindly so, and he ain’t never tolerated anyone talking bad about him. And to have Dutch’s “sons” talking about leaving-? Especially when he was right about some things? About Arthur not being on the boat, doing something else? He can see how that might looks to someone like Bill. It ain’t the first time that Arthur’s pushed again Dutch, challenged him, but he’s always backed down, given in. In front of everyone. But if he’s gone and taken Kieran, what’s to stop him doing other things? What’s to have stopped him sneaking off and telling the authorities about the boat, especially if he wasn’t happy? Two and two make... He can see how Bill could add it up and come to the wrong conclusion. Maybe Arthur’s the only one that weren’t feeling suspicious after Blackwater. He wasn’t there, after all, didn’t see how it went down. And it took him a long time to stop being blind about Dutch. Makes sense that he’d been blind about others, too, wouldn’t see what they were thinking, too. 

He takes a breath, and another, trying to sort through his thoughts, to figure out where to go from here. He knows what should happen next, but things have changed so much. He again has to suppress the temptation to tell John to run and get Abigail and Jack, but they ain’t ready for that. Nowhere near ready. If they do that, what are they going to do? Live in this house? Hide out for the rest of their lives? He doesn’t even know, yet, where they should go. He ain’t sure how far they have to go for Dutch to not chase. 

“We’re gonna have to go back,” he decides. 

John doesn’t say anything. He pauses, though, midway through putting one of the tonics in his saddlebags. He’s clearly listening. 

“We’re gonna have to go back, stick to the plan about Kieran, pretend we don’t know nothin’ about Bill. We just gotta hope they don’t know our names an’ who we are, an’ that they didn’t get a good enough look at us” And we gotta hope he really is dead, he thinks, but doesn’t say that bit out loud. That’s tempting fate a bit too much. “As far as we know, Bill is out there lookin’ for us an’ he’ll come back. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” John says with a nod. “But what you gonna do about your horse? Gonna look strange you comin’ back without one.” 

And that’s how they end up at the stables north of Van Horn, and how Arthur ends up with a rose grey Andalusian. He calls her Promise, because he promises that nothing else is going to go wrong. He’s out of money now, going to have to go after those other gold bars, but there ain’t much he can do about that. He’s just got to hope that whatever god is up there is finally going to let up and give him a goddamn break. He’s doing his best, but so far everything just seems to be going wrong. 

Or maybe it’s a sign. Maybe he should just go ahead and shoot Micah. Kill everyone who’s gonna cause them problems in the future. Kill Dutch, too. But that just makes him feel ill.

“Why d’you stay?”

It’s too late to travel back, so they’ve set up camp back at the house. There ain’t no fire, but it’s warmer than being outside. They’ve shared a cold dinner of canned beans and corned beef, and are now sat wrapped up in their bedrolls next to each other. They pushed the table against the wall earlier, because there weren’t much room. 

John looks up, raises an eyebrow, and Arthur repeats himself. “Why do you stay with us? You could have a life. You, Abigail, Jack… Bein’ an outlaw ain’t a life, an’ you know it.”

It takes a moment for John to speak. He’s weaving a belt out of several pieces of leather, and he puts that down. He isn’t looking at Arthur, though, but somewhere in the distance. “You’re family. You’re all I know. I tried once, an’...an’ I failed. An’ I don’t wanna take them away. Abigail, Jack, when they’ve got family, support, a life. What would we do? Become accountants? Bankers? A farmer? More likely we’d starve, or get killed, or cause trouble somewhere else, because face it, Arthur, we can’t survive in the real world.” He looks at Arthur, then, and there’s anger there, and Arthur thinks that maybe, just maybe, John wasn’t running away from Abigail and Jack that first time, but Dutch. “We’re _killers_. We ain’t nothin’ else. Dutch made us killers and outlaws and thieves. Made us think we were better than everyone else, but a murderer is a murderer, an’ a thief is still a thief, even if he steals from the rich to give to the poor.” 

Arthur looks at the place where the weird beast is meant to be, and thinks that whoever made that ain’t the only one creating monsters. He thinks about everything he’s ever done, about everything he’s supposed to do, everything he did the last time. He thinks again about Rains Fall, Eagle Flies, the army, Bronte, the Braitheswaites and the Grays. About how everything was manipulated and twisted. He thinks about his and John’s childhoods, how they were taught to fight, to kill, steal and shoot, to go against the law and be outlaws. He thinks about how they grew up and weren’t given no choice about what they wanted to be, and he thinks that, no, whoever created that monster ain’t the only one creating monsters. 

He thinks, then, that they’ve always been condemned, that it’s always been their fate to die, and die horribly, and there ain’t nothing they can do to change it. They’re always going to be dead men walking, and all he can do, all he’s doing, is making things worse.

Arthur thinks all this, and bolts. 

Because Dutch has created his own monsters. 

Only difference is they look human.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry that nothing much happened in this chapter...apart from me poorly trying to describe the deadeye ability! I just wanted to give John and Arthur some time to talk! And I think Arthur needs some time to just breathe!
> 
> As always, thank you for reading. Thank you to everyone who has commented, left kudos, subscribed, and bookmarked. Please do keep commenting to let me know what you think!


	7. Crossroads

Arthur runs. He doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow until the house is out of sight, doesn’t care that he stumbles and trips more than once, that he crashes through the underbrush, scaring off every animal within half of a mile and alerting anyone nearby to his presence. He just needs to move, get away, go, have some time to think. Suddenly, it’s too much to look at John, to know that he had a hand in John living the life that he now does; that he was so ready and willing to carry on with things as they were. If things hadn’t happened as they had, would he have been happy to see Jack turn into an outlaw, too? That sweet little boy who made flower necklaces for his mother? See him turn increasingly bitter and ruthless?

By the time Arthur stops, legs giving up so that he slides down to sit on the ground, back against a tree, his chest is heaving, but there’s no sign of a cough, no sign of pain. With every breath, he drags in clean, cold air. His lungs almost sing with it. It’s like they, too, remember the past and are grateful that they can breathe clearly again. And with every breath, he feels himself calm. Things might not be going right, but he still has a chance - has time - to fix things. He can still make a difference. He can still fucking change things so they don’t all end up dead. Have a little faith, that’s what he’s got to do. Have some goddamn fucking faith. In himself. In the reason why he’s back here.

It still doesn’t stop him from thinking about how different his life could have been. How if he’d only stayed with Eliza and Isaac, they’d still be alive and he’d be part of a normal family. Or if he’d only run away with Mary, married her all them years ago... But he was always, always drawn back to Dutch, lured in by false promises and talk of a family that never actually was. Where were they all at the end? Splintered and divided, driven away and apart. Molly hadn’t had to die, and Susan neither. 

And it wasn’t just them. Dutch - they all did - tore apart other families, too. Rains Fall’s, the Downes’, and so many, many more. Eagle Flies gave his life for a man he barely knew, but somehow Dutch had no problem leaving both his sons, both the men he raised, to die. More than once. That ain’t family, and Arthur knows he don’t want to be part of that no more, knows that he ain’t really a monster; that he can put a stop to it all. No more killing, no more robbing, no more straying from the path that they were supposed to be following all along. 

He’s tired of running. He thinks that he’s always been tired of it, that he’s been running all his life, just ain’t realised it, but he’s tired of it. They ain’t never settled anywhere, ain’t never called any place home, though they’ve had multiple chances. Well, that’s going to change and he’s gonna find somewhere that they can call home, where they can put down their roots, and where they can stop running and don’t have to be chased no more. He’ll do whatever it takes, he thinks, because he should’ve done it a long, long time ago. 

A twig snaps, and Arthur freezes. He surprises himself by not reaching for his pistol. Instead, his arms remain loosely wrapped around his legs. Plan and think, see what happens, and then react. The one thing Dutch ain’t never done, despite his words. Don’t have to go in guns blazing everytime. Don’t have to shoot your way out of everything. A part of him almost, almost wants to be caught. ‘Nother way to stop running. It’s Murfree country, he knows, but so what? That don’t guarantee that it’s Murfrees.

And he’s right.

“You alright?”

Arthur just watches as John settles down beside him. He don’t know how much time has passed since he fled, but John doesn’t look worried or panicked. He simply cracks his shoulders and stretches his legs out in front of him. Was this how John felt? When he disappeared for that year? Everything suddenly too much? Too overwhelming? Only difference, Arthur thinks, is that John did what Arthur wants but can’t, and kept on going. 

Their shoulders are touching. Just like how it used to be, and Arthur is shocked by how he doesn’t feel the slightest urge to move away. He would have done before, the first time, before he died. Even towards the end, because there was that distance that felt like it could never be breached. Brothers, but not friends. But now… now, he finds himself taking comfort from the closeness. Dutch might not have his back, might never have had, but John does. Arthur thinks that if nothing else changes, at least there’s this.

John sits and waits. He ain’t never been the patient type, especially since coming down from the mountain - had only seemed to get worse, more angry, more impatient, more resentful -, but this John? Arthur could mistake him for that monk on the cliffside.

For a moment he thinks that he ain’t the only one to have come back. That John has, too. For a moment, he wants to tell John everything, ask if he remembers, but the woods are quiet, everything’s peaceful, and he don’t want to disturb that. He’s not yet ready to take the risk.

And so “Thought I saw a spider,” is all he mutters, hunching his shoulders and burying himself deeper into his coat. It’s cold out here. He can see his breath as it mists in the air, and he almost wishes he hadn’t run. The cold brings back memories of pain, of invisible hands wrapping around his chest, of things that could have been avoided. It brings back memories of actual drowning, not just the feeling that he is. He remembers the ship, the ocean. He don’t think he’ll ever like the cold again. 

“Never knew you were scared of spiders,” John says. “All them years I could’ve placed ‘em in your bed, in your socks, in your clothes...” And then he sighs. “I ain’t never paid you back for hidin’ that fish in my trunk. Can’t believe you actually took the linin’ out and then sewed it back so I wouldn’t notice. Couldn’t trace the smell for weeks! Miss. Grimshaw thought I just weren’t washin’, but she couldn’t scrub me clean, so she dumped me in that river. Almost drowned.”

Arthur can’t help but snort, remembering. It pushes away the cold, brings him back. They weren’t always monsters. It weren’t always so bad. “You deserved it. Putting dye in my hair-pomade. I looked like some undertaker!”

“I was twelve! And all you kept talking about was Mary this and Mary that, and Mary, Mary, quite contrary, how does your garden grow?” 

“She liked it, you know. The black hair. Thought it made me look more sophisticated. Less like an outlaw, more like an accountant. ‘Cept I sweated so much meetin’ her parents that the dye started to run… Got it all over my hands an’ then Mrs. Gillis’ expensive table cloth, an’, well, I ain’t been kicked out a house swifter.”

_Oh, Mary_ , he thinks. She’d deserved better, too, but he don’t ever regret meeting her. He just wishes he could have spent more time with her. There’s a hole in his heart that he thinks will never heal. Love don’t just disappear. He still loves Dutch, in a way. 

He can’t see John’s face, but he hears him laugh. “I remember how you always used to use me as an excuse to meet up with her. Say you were takin’ me to town to civilise me, teach me some manners, but you’d always dump me at the general store or the saloon while you went off with her…”

“You never wanted to join us!” 

“She kept tryna comb my hair!”

He don’t know if John is doing it on purpose, if he’s picked up on Arthur’s unease, is trying to draw it away, distract from Bill, but they keep on trading tales, even as they finally get up and walk back to the house. They keep on talking until the early hours of the morning, about nothing, about everything, until they finally fall asleep and, when Arthur wakes up, he feels refreshed and like he can _breathe_. Some of the weight has lifted. He’s doing this for John. For Lenny, Kieran, Sean. Hosea. Eagle Flies. Molly, too, and even Miss. Grimshaw.

It doesn’t take them long to saddle the horses, or to get back on the road. There ain’t no sign of any police officers, anyone looking for them in regards to Bill, so they stick to the roads, avoiding heading back into the swamp.

They don’t talk - seems like they talked enough during the night -, but ride in companionable silence. It’s strange to actually have someone riding with him. He’s spent.. _had spent_... so much time alone, riding out, spending days by himself in the wilderness, just him and his horse, that he’s become used to just his company. Sometimes he thinks he was just avoiding the camp. And Dutch. Either way, it’s nice. It don’t feel like he’s facing all this alone, and he even starts singing, humming to himself, because, for the first time since waking up, he feels content. _This_ is the life he wants. 

Except suddenly that life has Milton in it. 

Arthur doesn’t see them until it’s too late, doesn’t notice the road block at the crossroads until they’re practically on top of it and any move to avoid it will look suspicious. He feels John tensing beside him on Old Boy’s back. Enough that Old Boy prances forward a few steps, skittish and uneasy, before John settles him with a few quiet words and a pat. He ain’t Kieran, but he’s close. They could bolt, Arthur thinks, dig their heels in and ride away, but it’s too much of a risk. John doesn’t recognise Agent Milton - doesn’t know him yet -, but his face is still pale. The law is the law, after all, and the law ain’t never been good to them.

He’s looking to Arthur, to know how to react, and so Arthur forces himself to keep still, to appear calm and like there’s nothing wrong, but inwardly his heart is pounding. He can feel it thudding against his chest, can feel as his ears start to ring again. The world flickers, and Arthur makes himself _breathe_. One breath, two, three. _Just breathe._

His mind is racing along with his heart, and he wonders where he’s gone wrong this time, how things can be so different once again. He ain’t supposed to meet Milton yet, he knows, not until he goes fishing with Jack. There was just Milton and the other guy, but this time there’s more. Six of them, all dressed in suits and bowler hats. They’ve stopped a wagon and are chatting to the driver, and Arthur thinks again about breaking away, running, but he knows they’ve seen them. Sees the way their gaze goes straight to him as they wave the wagon through. 

“ _Arthur_ ,” John hisses. His hand is hovering over his holster. He sounds worried.

“Don’t say nothin’, don’t do nothin’,” Arthur hisses back, even as he tips his hat to the nearest Pinkerton and nudges Promise forward. Milton is standing surveying the scene by one of the barrels used to construct the roadblock. He looks bored, but then he spots Arthur and his eyes almost light up. He straightens, smiles, and starts to walk towards them, hands clasped in front of him, making no move to reach for his gun. He could be some random city folk going for a stroll, but he ain’t.

Arthur’s stomach twists.

The last time he saw Milton, Milton tried to kill him - almost did-, kidnapped Abigail, hurt Sadie, recruited _Micah_ , tried to destroy them all. It was his pursuit that drove Dutch mad, that pushed Dutch to make ever more rash decisions, do ever more crazy things to try and get away.

And so it takes every bit of strength Arthur has not to throw himself from his horse and throttle the life out of the bastard. He can’t hear Milton’s words. He sees the man open his mouth, sees his lips move, sees him speaking, but the rushing in his ears is back as well as words, words from what seem like an age ago.

“ _We offered you a deal, Mr. Morgan...you should have taken it._ ”

He should’ve. Should’ve let Dutch hang. Should’ve handed him over. Should’ve let him swing. Would have solved so many problems, because Dutch didn’t care. Never cared for them. Any of them. 

Dutch had done nothing to try and stop John from hanging, Arthur remembers; had almost planned for it. If Sadie and him hadn’t rescued John? There would’ve been nothing else. John would’ve died. And then Dutch had gone and got angry, berated them for saving him, and Arthur thinks that no, no, he ain’t gonna be angry at Milton. Milton’s just doing his job. It ain’t him who turned Cornwall’s attention towards them. That was all Dutch. Dutch didn’t have to rob the train, could’ve left it for the O’Driscolls, could’ve let them wipe themselves out, catch Cornwall’s attention, the Pinkertons wrath, but, no, not Dutch. Dutch had to best Colm, even at the risk of everyone else. It weren’t never about the money, Arthur thinks. There were plenty of other ways to make money. Far safer ways. 

“Mr. Morgan, isn’t it?” The words come back in a rush, and Arthur finds himself staring into Milton’s eyes as the man looks up at him, absently patting Promise’s neck. It won’t take much for him, though, to grab the bridle. “Arthur Morgan, Van der Linde’s most trusted associate. I’m Agent Milton. Pinkerton Detective Agency, seconded to the United States Government.”

Arthur can hear John’s rush of breath, can feel his own stop, and thinks that this is going to end in yet another firefight. It takes everything he has, too, not to glance at John, fling himself at the man and pull his gun from his hand. It’s over, he thinks, for definite this time.

But John does nothing. Stays where he is. Doesn’t reach for his gun. Waits. He’s putting his fate in Arthur’s hands, and Arthur almost can’t believe it. John clearly trusts him. They’ve fought and quarrelled, been at each other’s throats for the last few years, but somehow John still trusts him. 

And once again Arthur can breathe. 

He doesn’t know what he’s going to do, but an idea is forming, what he should’ve done the first time. 

“Wouldn’t call myself that,” he finally says, not letting any of his anxiety fill his voice. He don’t remember feeling so much fear all the time, not like he does now. It’s almost constant, but there’s a reason for it. He just didn’t know what was at stake the last time. “Van der Linde ain’t got no associates. Don’t trust no one neither.”

Milton frowns. It ain’t much of a frown, but it’s still a frown. He pauses in stroking Promise’s face. Stills completely. 

“If you’re gonna call me anythin’,” Arthur continues, “then call me what I am. I ain’t nothin’ but a tool for _Mr. Van der Linde_.” He puts as much venom as can behind Dutch’s name. Every bit of it is real. _I gave you all I had, Dutch,_ and he’d just walked away, left him to die a second time. Not this time, though. Not this time. “Ain’t nothin’ more than his attack dog. Picked me up as a kid,” as an _orphaned street kid seduced by that maniac’s silver tongue_ and there ain’t never been truer words spoken. It hurts to think about it, is like a knife in his chest. All them years. “He picked me up from the streets an’ turned me into a weapon for him to use. Weapons don’t talk, Mr. Milton, or become associates.”

For a moment, Milton seems lost for words. This ain’t how it happened last time. Nothing like how it happened. He’s sure Milton had a speech planned, but the man quickly recovers.

“You’re a wanted man, Mr. Morgan, weapon or not, tool or not. There’s five thousand dollars,” and Milton briefly glances at John before looking back, “for _your_ head alone.”

“Five thousand?” Arthur remembers the sum from the last time, but it’s still just as astonishing and his surprise isn’t entirely feigned. He thinks about how much that could get them, John, Abigail, and all the others, and he thinks that hanging’s a faster death than what he faced.

Milton can’t see his thoughts, but he smiles nethertheless. “We can forget that, forgive it, if you bring Van der Linde in.” Arthur wonders if this is what he offered Micah, too. Did he use the same words? “I promise you won’t swing.”

“And what about the others?”

“The others?”

Arthur nods towards John. “The others.” He doesn’t want to name them. Doesn’t know just how much Milton knows. “You promise they won’t swing neither?”

Milton pauses once again. “That’s a lot to ask, Mr. Morgan.”

“Call me Arthur. If I’m gonna swap one master for another, might as well call me by name.”

John is looking at him now, eyes wide with disbelief, but Arthur can’t look at him, can’t meet his gaze. He knows this is right, that this might give them more of a chance, but it doesn’t stop the guilt. It doesn’t stop him from feeling like a traitor. They can run and run and run, but they’ll never be free, never be free from their past. All it’ll take is for one person to recognise them. Maybe this is their only chance: the only way. Freedom from their crimes.

“But I ain’t gonna do nothin’,” he ploughs on, “if you can’t guarantee their safety. Dutch likes collectin’ stray orphans, you see.” He wonders if he’s going too fast, saying too much, but he has to take control of the conversation, he knows, take the lead. If this is going to work, then he has to dictate the terms. “Ain’t none of our faults, what we are. We’re just tryin’ to survive, an’ I’ve realised that the way to do that ain’t with Dutch. When he robbed that boat, killed that innocent girl… I ain’t got much morals, Mr. Milton, but I’ve got some, an’ he stepped over the line,” and Dutch has done so much more. It doesn’t matter that he’s yet to actually do it in this reality. Doing it once is enough.

“Perhaps it can be negotiated,” Milton says carefully.

“I hope it can, Mr. Milton, I really hope it can, because I’m done with this life an’ I want out. I know Dutch is plannin’ somethin’ big. Another robbery. I don’t want any more innocents to die. I ain’t never signed up for that.” It’s the truth still. He hasn’t lied yet. He’s done. He’s finished. Hosea didn’t deserve to die. Neither did Lenny. He doesn’t think Dutch can be saved. He doesn’t think he even wants to save Dutch, not after everything that’s happened. If Dutch can betray them, then why can’t he betray Dutch? At least, unlike Micah, he wants some good to come out of it. He ain’t doing it to save himself.

“I’ll tell you everything I can,” he continues, “but I ain’t handin’ Dutch over until I have a written guarantee that I’m workin’ for you, doin’ this for you, that you just want Dutch and you’ll let us go.”

It really is happening too fast, he thinks. It’s not happening fast enough. John is still looking at him, but he doesn’t look angry, just astonished. Arthur thinks it’s the first time he’s truly admitted in front of anyone how much he don’t trust Dutch. He should’ve listened to John long ago. Milton, however, is smiling once again. 

“I’ll see what I can do, M- _Arthur_. I may have to talk to my superiors, but I think we can reach some kind of an agreement.”

He feels sick, feels ill, feels like the worst person ever, but he’s got no other choice. Dutch needs to be gone, because Dutch, he knows, won’t ever let them go. Dutch can walk away, can leave them, but they can’t do the same. Dutch won’t allow it. Dutch would kill them for it. He was done with Molly, but he wouldn’t let her go, and she died for it when all she wanted was love and someone to care. 

Arthur looks back at Milton and nods. “How long do you need?”

“A few days. Two, perhaps three.”

“There’s a place in Lemoyne. Not far from here. Lakay. Ask around Lagras an’ they’ll give you the directions. I’ll meet you there in three days.” It’s more time taken away, he thinks, but he’ll just have to deal with it. His heart is back to pounding. “I’ll be alone. You can bring however many you want.” He’s got to show some trust. Not make it seem like a set up. “But you can give me the paper then, an’ I’ll tell you everythin’ I know about Dutch, an’ you can decide how you want me to get him.” His throat is suddenly dry and it’s hard to swallow, but he manages. It’s the ultimate betrayal, he thinks, but Dutch got there first. Dutch has been betraying them for years.“Deal?”

It’s Milton’s turn to nod. He doesn’t do it straightaway. He stands there for a moment, two, thinking, calculating, and then he nods, once, slowly, and then holds out his hand. He’s practically grinning.

Arthur takes his hand and they shake.

“ _Deal._ "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So still no Sean, but I'll get there eventually. I'm not too sure if this is in keeping with Arthur's character, but the idea wouldn't leave me alone.
> 
> As always, thank you for reading. Thank you to everyone who has commented, left kudos, subscribed, and bookmarked. Please do keep commenting to let me know what you think!


	8. Trust

There ain’t much to say after that. They part ways, Agent Milton’s lips continuing to curl up into something that is- _has to be_ \- a smile, looking just like the cat that’s just got the cream. Or the devil, because Arthur’s fairly sure he’s just sold his soul and made a deal with the devil. It don’t feel like it, though. Feels more like he’s made a deal to _trap_ the devil, like he’s realised he’s been on the wrong side all this time and is finally getting it right. There’s relief, there: hope. If this works out... 

Oh, he don’t like Milton, can’t stand the man, don’t fully trust him, but sometimes you’ve got to do what you’ve got to in order to get what you want, and he so wants a life. He wants everyone to have a life; a chance at living. He doesn’t care what he has to do. But, still, he can practically hear the delight in Milton’s voice as the man orders his men to break up the roadblock, and Arthur’s stomach twists, his hands grip the reins tighter, and it takes everything he has not to turn around, because there’s a part of him telling him that this is wrong, wrong, _wrong_.

And it ain’t helped by the eyes he can feel burning on his back. 

By the time he stops, a mile down the road, he feels like he should have melted a hundred times over by now. He’s surprised that John’s still silent. He thinks John’s surprised by that, too. Arthur’s heard him draw a breath multiple times by now, as if to speak, only for it to turn into a huff. He can practically feel John trembling. He just don’t know whether it’s rage, anger, nerves, or something else.

Maybe John’s actually laughing, finding this whole thing hilarious. Arthur sure wants to laugh. He wants to laugh and laugh and laugh and never stop, because it feels like this whole thing has been a joke right from the start. Any moment, he thinks, he’s going to be pulled back, find that he really is dead, and there ain’t nothin’ he can do about it.

But the sudden blossoming pain tells him he ain’t dead, and it is pain he feels as, the moment he climbs off the horse, he finds himself slammed into the nearest tree, his back pressed into the bark, John’s arm once again an immovable metal bar against his chest. The scene’s all too familiar, he thinks. Could be exactly the same, except Kieran ain’t here. Kieran ain’t ever going to be here again, because the kid’s safe.

The words, however, aren’t the same. 

There ain’t actually no words for a very, very long time. 

John just stares at him, hand twisting in the neck of Arthur’s shirt, until Arthur can almost feel the air being cut off, but Arthur doesn’t react, just stays there and waits, holding himself still. He ain’t here to fight. He ain’t gonna fuck things up between them like he did the last time. He _needs_ John. He tried to do this all on his own last time, and it didn’t work. It can’t not work this time. 

John’s knuckles turn white, and his breaths come quick, shoulders heaving. Arthur can practically read his thoughts, knows that John is deciding whether to commit murder, whether to kill him. John knows Dutch, knows him more than anyone else, but he ain’t seen him fully yet, seen what he’ll do, not like Arthur has. And there’s still that loyalty. No one conjures loyalty quite like Dutch.

All Arthur has to do is raise a knee, aim it at John’s crotch, slam it home, and then throw a punch when John doubles over to be free, but he still doesn’t move. Keeps on waiting instead. They’re close enough to kiss. Arthur could mention that, too, he thinks, to get John to release him, see him pull away, watch the look of horror on his face, but he don’t. He just lets John continue to think things through; decide whether or not the man he’s grown up with is a traitor. 

Tick, tick, tick, tick. It’s almost like waiting for the dynamite fuse to burn down, to reach the end. There’s a broken off branch digging in Arthur’s back, pressing painfully between a gap in his ribs, and it takes everything he has not to move, not to at least fidget. He can barely breathe, and now this, but still he don’t move, still he waits, leaving it all to John.

The explosion, when it finally happens, is just as quick, just as sudden as with dynamite. John lets out a growl and finally jumps away. He storms off, and then turns back just as suddenly, his movements vicious, angry. The horses shift uneasily, shake their heads, pull against the reins that tie them. Arthur’s once again reminded of when they were younger, of when John was a kid and angry at everything, at the whole wide world. He stands there, watching, as John kicks at a fallen log, doesn’t give in to the urge to smile as he sees John falter, stiffen, at what must obviously be a broken toe. No. Arthur continues to just wait. No one ever gives John time to think, to decide on what he wants to do. No one ever listens to him. 

“ _What the fuck_?” John finally exclaims, looking back towards Arthur. The words are harsh, cutting. “What the hell are you playin’ at, Arthur? Tell me you ain’t serious! If Dutch finds out, he’ll kill you. He’ll gut you! He’ll… He’ll fuckin’ tie you up and feed you to the alligators!”

Arthur blinks, even as he pushes aside memories of Bronte. That weren’t no way for a man to go. Bronte was a bastard, but he didn’t deserve that death, and all because Dutch’s ego was pricked. It’s all right for Dutch to set people up, to make deals and then drop and betray them - _Eagle Flies_ , Arthur thinks, the pain still raw, another person killed- but not for people to do the same to him. But still, the words are a shock, something of a surprise, not what he was expetcting. There’s no _how dare you_ , no _you’re betraying us_ , no _why_ , no _don’t you dare_ , just worry about what Dutch will do. There’s no condemnation.

But then John trusts him, though he don’t know why. He’s not against him, never has been. Even at the end, he didn’t want to leave Arthur. And this John doesn’t have any reason to hate Milton. Milton ain’t threatened Abigail yet, ain’t threatened the gang, but Dutch-? Arthur thinks Dutch has already left them more times than they can count, and John was there on the boat. John saw everything. 

“Well,” Arthur starts, stumbling over the words. His voice is gruff. He really ain’t alone in this. He actually ain’t alone. John isn’t going to leave him. He wants to say that they’re just gonna have to make sure that Dutch doesn’t find out, make it sound like he isn’t concerned, has it all under control, but the words don’t come out. They stick in his throat. Instead, because a part of him still doesn’t believe, “You ain’t gonna go tell him? I’m betrayin’ him. I’m betrayin’ all of us.”

John just snorts, sitting down on the log he’d previously kicked. He pulls his boot off, reaching to inspect his foot. Arthur knows they should be moving again, that they should be heading back to camp or off to help Sean, because there’s still so much to do, but all he does is sit down next to John. Five minutes, he thinks, surely he’s allowed just five minutes to breathe, to think.

“I ain’t mad at you, if that’s what you’re askin’,” John says. He stops, pauses, shakes his head. “No. I _am_ mad at you, but that’s ‘cause you’re a crazy, stupid son of a bitch. But Dutch… Dutch is gonna get us all into trouble one of these days, an’ I think that that’s gonna be sooner rather than later. He ain’t been right for a long time. An’ you’re right. I wanna leave. Not the gang, but… but Dutch. An’ I don’t see no other way. I can’t see Dutch sacrificin’ himself to save all of us, can you? Actually givin’ us a chance? Lettin’ us do what we want? Be ourselves? I think sometimes he’d sooner drive us all off a cliff than let us go.”

John doesn’t know how right he is, Arthur thinks, how willing Dutch is to sacrifice others before him himself., and how willing he is to kill them, condemn them, instead of let them go.

_“They… they was talkin’ of hangin’ me, Dutch.”_ the voices start again. John ain’t speaking, but Arthur can hear the words, can see the scene unfolding in front of him. The hurt, the rage. Not for the first time, and not the last.

_“They was talkin’...They was_ talkin’ _. And now they may come and hang us all.”... “I had a goddamn plan!_ But Arthur don’t think Dutch ever had a plan, besides letting John hang. A brother, a son, it didn’t matter to him. John should’ve hanged. That was the plan. Look at how quick Dutch was to leave John for dead during the train robbery. 

Arthur wants so desperately, then, to tell John everything, that there’s a reason he’s doing all of this, because he _knows_ what Dutch will do to them all, that Dutch will kill John if he gets the chance, but he doesn’t. It won’t make sense, will only make John think he’s going crazy. He’ll just have to make sure that John, that Jack and Abigail, never get captured: that Dutch leaves them alone.

“I...I worry,” John continues, oblivious to Arthur’s thoughts. “I worry about Jack. Abigail don’t think I care for him, but I do. I don’t want to sometimes, because it’s easier not to, but I do. This really ain’t no life for him. I worry… He’s just a kid, Arthur. That Milton? I ain’t stupid. If he can’t get Dutch, he’ll come after us, too. All of us. Don’t matter what our reasons for being there are. I think sometimes if it was just Hosea, we’d be all right, but Dutch ain’t ever gonna stop thinkin’ an’ dreamin’ an’ scheming an’ usin’ us all. So I ...I’m with ya, Arthur. I’m with ya.” 

And Arthur can breathe again, not realising he’s stopped. He stares down at the floor, at his feet, the relief almost overwhelming. There’s still some guilt, because Dutch is the one who raised him, but Dutch didn’t care about that in the end, so why should he? Dutch left him to die. He left all of them to die: betrayed them all and ruined so many lives. He left a path of destruction behind him, and it ain’t gonna happen this time. It ain’t. Dutch is gonna hang right alongside Colm, and people are gonna get a chance to live. Dutch is finally going to do what he always says he will and give his life for them. Arthur’s just got to work out how he’s going to do it.

But first: Sean. They have got to get Sean free. 

“Think you can ride with that broken foot?”

“I ain’t broken it,” John mutters, pulling his boot back on. His words are defensive, face flushed, red, and he cringes ever so slightly as he stands and puts weight back on it. Oh, he’s definitely broken it, or, at least, broken a toe, but won’t admit it. “Just stubbed it. I’m fine.”

Arthur’s breathing eases that bit more, and he grins. John’s still here, he repeats. John’s with him. John’s behind him. “Maybe next time you should hit the log with your head. Your skull’s always been thick. Less likely to cause damage. An’ maybe... maybe you’ll be lucky an’ it’ll actually knock some sense into you. Ya certainly need some.”

John grabs Old Boy’s reins, and glares. “An’ how about you fuck off? Or go ride into a tree? That’s your favourite thing to do, ain’t it? You still hold the record. Look, I think I see one over there with your name on it…”

And on and on it goes. Their bickering makes the ride pass quicker, makes it easier for Arthur to set aside his worries about what he’s actually going to do, and concentrate on what they need to do right now, right this minute. 

Lemoyne gives way to New Haven, and New Haven becomes West Elizabeth. They don’t go down near the river, but follow the railway tracks and cut across the bridge, timing it so that they don’t end up face to face with a train. Arthur thinks he’s still got to rescue the Rev, too, but cards ain’t all that harmful. Swanson can wait, Swanson can look after himself for just a bit longer. Besides, he’s better off away from the camp. Arthur can only imagine what all their absences are doing to Dutch. Man’s probably going mad. Too long without a chance to give a speech. 

“You know he writes his speeches?” he says suddenly, looking over at John. John’s become ever increasingly tense the closer they get to Blackwater. He’s still talking, but he ain’t smiling so much, ain’t letting himself get so insulted and wound up by Arthur’s teasing. 

“Dutch?” John snorts. “Of course. You don’t think he just made ‘em up on the spot, did ya? I found a set once, when I was a kid. Decided to change ‘em. Thought we were all the right age for him to tell us about the birds an’ the bees.” John does grin now. “Should have seen his face when he discovered. Thankfully, he thought it was you tryna pretend to be me to get me in trouble. I was too young clearly to know about sex.”

And the fighting, the bickering, the arguing starts again, the memories of their childhoods, the things that brought them together, the reasons why they need to go, need to get out, need to have a chance at a future. Arthur thinks that he would’ve liked to have seen Isaac and Jack together, would’ve liked to have seen how different they were to their fathers. A gang that really is more about being family. 

Dutch should have told him to stay with Eliza, he thinks, not encouraged him to leave. A father should want what’s best for his sons, not what’s best for himself. _Eliza. Mary. Oh, Mary._

After an hour, two, they cross over to the Great Plains, splashing through the ford, and then climb up onto the plains themselves, to the hill overlooking Blackwater, but the camp is not where Arthur remembers it. There’s remnants of a fire, the ashes scattered, of marks where the tent pegs were hammered into the dry, hard earth, but no sign of Charles or Javier. 

Shit, Arthur thinks, even as he slows Promise. He doesn’t think they’re too late -he’d made sure of that - but, still, there’s no sign. There’s no sign of trouble either, but that doesn’t stop him from loosening his holster. John goes one step further and grabs his repeater. He stays mounted, on watch, as Arthur dismounts and checks over the camp, searching for any sign that something went wrong. He’s not as good as Charles at tracking, but he’s much better than he was at this point last time. It doesn’t take much for him to spot the tracks leading away. Three sets of hoofprints. Fresh. Less than an hour old, if he has to guess. Close, but not close enough.

Shit, he thinks again, and his heart starts to pound, his chest tightens. There were too many men, too many bounty hunters, for just the two of them. For just Javier and Charles. It was hard enough with the three of them.

“We’ve gotta find ‘em,” he says, pushing himself up. 

He remembers that the first time he’d wished they’d brought more of the gang, and it makes him wonder, even as he pulls himself onto Promise’s back and kicks the horse into a canter, whether Dutch was truly, actually invested in getting Sean back, or whether he had a speech prepared about how it was sad to have lost Sean, but they tried, oh they tried, but now they had to move on. They should’ve all come to help Sean, Arthur thinks. Dutch shouldn’t’ve let him get captured. 

Suddenly, there’s a dust cloud ahead of them, getting closer rather than further away. Arthur hears John mutter a curse, even as he mutters his own, and this time he has his own repeater ready as the sound of hooves come pounding towards them.

Through the dust cloud he can see horses, two of them, and he easily recognises the markings of Taima. He doesn’t lower his repeater, though. Raises it instead. There’s something wrong. Something’s very wrong. The horses are close together, and Arthur can see that Javier has an arm out, reaching for Charles, seemingly holding him up, holding him on his horse, because Charles is sagging worriedly to the side. If Taima moves away from Boaz, it’s clear to see, Charles will be pitched to the ground. Charles isn’t even holding the reins, but clinging tightly to the saddlehorn. 

Javier shouts out as he spots them, and they come together in another swirl of dust. Javier doesn’t even wait until the horses are fully stopped before he’s off and reaching for Charles. There’s blood on Charle’s shirt, and it’s growing, flowing out. 

For a moment, Arthur can’t move, can’t think, is completely frozen. It’s not Charles he’s seeing, but Eagle Flies. The bullet wound is lower, stomach rather than shoulder, but he all he can see is the mad dash back, Eagle Flies’ life fading away, the way Dutch left them - him - then, too, not caring that Eagle Flies was dying, not caring for them, for Arthur, only focused on himself. 

Not Charles, Arthur thinks. Not Charles, too. Not Charles as well. It’s too early for that. 

It’s John who moves first, dashing forward to throw Charle’s arm over his shoulder. Charles hisses, and Arthur is suddenly back, the yellow fading from his vision, the memories forced away by the cry of pain. It’s a shoulder wound, deep, but it looks like the bullet’s passed through. Survivable, if they’re quick enough. 

“They got Trelawney,” Javier pants, gulping in breaths. He looks rough, but unharmed. There’s dirt on his shirt, and it’s ripped in places, and his hair is loose, out of its usual ponytail. Looks like he’s been a physical fight. There’s a blossoming bruise on his cheek. “It was a trap. They were waitin’ for us. Or at least they weren’t convinced by Trelawney’s words. They shot Charles as he was getting away, but he managed to catch up with me.”

There’s another cloud of dust, Arthur notices, just beyond them, coming closer, too, minute by minute. Arthur sees the moment Javier sees it, too.

And Javier swears, curses in Spanish. “Looks like they’ve found us!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the wait between updates. I've been really struggling, like many others, with the current lockdown and events that are happening. I hope everyone is keeping safe and well. 
> 
> As always, thank you for reading. Thank you to everyone who has commented, left kudos, subscribed, and bookmarked. Please do keep commenting to let me know what you think!


	9. And Around and Around We Go

There’s four of them. Big men on big horses, and they’re coming in quick, eating the ground up beneath them. One second, two, three, and then they’ll be within firing range, and all it takes is one bullet to end a life, Arthur knows. He’s killed enough people himself already. One bullet, carefully aimed, and then they’re gone: it’s over, and there ain’t nothing they can do about it.

But there is, he thinks. He don’t know why, but he’s been given a second chance, and he ain’t gonna die from some bullet. Not like this. He just has to shoot them before they can shoot him. Easy enough, he thinks.

The thought doesn’t stop him from freezing all over again. _Everything_ freezes. There’s that yellow haze again, that moment where everything seems to have stopped and stilled, where the world seems to have come to a complete standstill. Nothing moves, nothing breathes, nothing so much as twitches. The world becomes a painting, a carving frozen in time, and, for some reason, this brings thoughts of Francis Sinclair, even as his heartbeat seems to stretch out, as the whooshing whirl of his blood pulsing through his veins floods his hearing, slow, slow, so slow at first, as things start to move again, creeping forward inch by inch, until finally something breaks, comes crashing down, the yellow veil shattering. Everything comes back with a roar. There’s the thundering of the hoofbeats, shaking the very ground, the shouts, and Arthur’s moving before he even has a chance to think, yelling at Javier, John, Charles, to go, just _go_ , get out of here. 

He doesn’t have to look to know they’re moving. He can hear Charles’ hissed breath, hear Javier’s cursing, hear John echoing his urging. The horses whinny and stamp their hooves, nervous. But they’re gonna be safe, it’s all gonna be fine. 

It’s strange, but he feels no fear. Oh, the urgency is there, but there’s no fear as he steps forward, his own gun raised. It ain’t his favourite gun. He ain’t yet got his Lancaster, but this gun, the Carbine, still feels familiar in his hands, the varnish worn smooth as he puts it to his shoulder, and aims. The world narrows again, and there’s only his breathing, in and out, in and out, in and out, slow and steady as he waits, waits for the men to get within shooting distance.

And closer and closer they come. 

The ground suddenly explodes beside him, sods of grass flying into the air, as a bullet from one of the bounty hunters lands, missing. Close, but not close enough. Ike Skelding’s men are experienced, he knows that from the last time, but when you’re on horseback, got terrain that rises and falls, and are coming in at speed, it ain’t easy to hit your target.

It ain’t the same for a man on foot.

There’s four men, and Arthur has seven bullets. He ain’t the type to boast, but he’s a good shot. Always has been, even when young. John used to talk about how he should join the circus, make a living from shooting apples and bottles off people’s heads. Arthur had snorted, then, and shot the brand new hat off of John’s head and listened to him howl, but he can shoot apples, too. That ain’t never been a problem.

And a man’s head is bigger than an apple. 

And a body is bigger than a head. Chest, guts, it don’t matter. They kill a man just as well. 

One of the bounty hunters draws slightly ahead, his horse that little bit faster. Black hat, tan coat, the usual bounty hunter attire, Arthur notes, taking in the details, horse a Belgian Draft. The man looks like he’s survived plenty of skirmishes before, his face covered in scars, nose broken in a dozen places. He’s missing his two front teeth as he pulls his lips back into something half grin, half scowl, a mingling of determination and victory, because one against four-? They ain’t good odds, it’s bound to be a success, but Arthur ain’t most people. They’re fair odds to him.

More pops, more crackles. They’re all shooting now. A bullet slams into a rock behind him, sending chips flying, and then he’s breathing in all over again, focusing. He blocks out the hissing, the whistling, the spitting as even more bullets fly past, all in vain, vain, vain. None of them hit, none of them even come close. A heartbeat, two, Arthur continues to hold his breath, the first man in his line of sight, an ‘x’ painted on his face. Closer, closer, closer, and then he’s breathing out, releasing the breath, and pulling the trigger as the last of the air leaves his lungs. CRACK! 

The grin is instantly wiped from the bounty hunter’s face, dissolving in a shower of blood, an explosion, his whole face disappearing behind a cloud of red. His head snaps back. Time seems to slow, and for a moment the hit bounty hunter floats, arms flailing out, gun hovering in the air, everything suspended, waiting, hanging, and then time slams back, and he’s falling, hitting the ground. His horse swerves, startling, into the other horses, slowing them down. Chaos descends. One man swears, another fumbles with his gun. 

And it’s easy, then. One, two, the next bounty hunters go down, headshots both, and Arthur swinging his gun to take down the fourth, only to see the man let out a cry, blood blossoming bright over his chest. John, suddenly beside Arthur, grins with a “not gonna let you have all the fun.”

And just like that it’s over, done, finished before Charles and Javier have even managed to go ten paces. 

The two of them turn back now, Charles still pale, his face a sickly grey as he presses a hand to the wound on his shoulder, and Javier… Javier continues to support him, keeping Boaz close, his expression worried, tense, like he’s scared Charles will collapse. 

The sight makes Arthur’s stomach twist, that of brothers supporting each other. It won’t last, he knows, or it didn’t, thinking how much Javier changed because of Dutch; how Dutch yet again ruined everything, seemingly not caring about their friendships and loyalty to each other. Life shouldn’t revolve around one person, but it did, it does. Maybe that’s the mistake the gang’s made. They were all at each other’s throats, split right down the middle, completely. 

Javier is another person he should tell, he thinks, suddenly desperate to do just that. Maybe he’ll understand if it’s all explained. Maybe he’ll stand by them if he knows. Javier’s always been idealistic, ready to fight for the cause. That’s why he’s so attracted, so keen to follow, Dutch. And what better cause is this? Maybe if he knows the truth… knows what Dutch will do… 

No, Arthur thinks. It’ll either break him or push him further away. Dutch stands for everything Javier believes in. Dutch was everything Arthur believed in, too, but the difference is Arthur is used to failure, and used to being disappointed, and he has John and Abigail, and Jack. He has them to believe in. And Arthur has gone and killed the one other person who might sway Javier: Bill.

“Arthur!” 

Arthur snaps back to the present as John squeezes his shoulder. Before, before all this he would’ve shoved John away, grunted something like _”get off, Marston!_ ”, but instead he just places a hand on top of John’s in a way that’s reassuring, he hopes. Got to be scary spending time with someone who has clearly lost his mind. John’s looking at him like that right now, like he’s scared Arthur’s gonna break in two. Arthur knows he can’t keep lingering in the past. It ain’t gonna work. He has to let go.

“Lone Mule Stead,” he grunts out, finally pulling away from John as he makes his way over to Promise. He wants to rush over to Charles, check him over, because, despite what he said, he can’t help but look back. His mind’s shouting, yelling at him _not another person, not another person_ over and over again. Sean, the list begins. Kieran, Lenny, Hosea, Molly, Eagle Flies Susan... and you can add the Braithewaites to that, the Grays, Bronte, and so many, many more, and still no money. No fucking money. All of it, all those deaths… and what did Dutch get? Nothing. 

Arthur riffles through his saddlebags, pulling out several tonics and a map.

“You ain’t gonna be able to go far,” he continues, even as he unfolds the map. Charles is back off the horse, Javier supporting him. They’re watching him, watching Arthur. “Ain’t gonna be able to get back to camp before it gets dark or before they start lookin’ for you again. It ain’t much,” he says, tapping the map just southeast of Riggs’ Station. “But it’s warm and dry, an’ empty. No one’s gonna think to look in there. You gonna need to get some rest,” because there’s something else he’s planning to do; the same thing he did when last he was there. Just this time? It ain’t gonna be to him. But it has to be done. He has no choice. It’s almost funny how things seem to circle back, like he can’t truly seem to escape them, these events, only shift who it happens to. Maybe that means he ain’t gonna change anything, that there still all gonna die, but he has to try. _Needs_ to.

He shoves the tonics at Charles, orders him to take them, and gets John and Javier to help Charles sit. The clock is ticking down again. They’re in the middle of the Plains, with nowhere to hide. Someone has to have heard the gunshots. If it ain’t the bounty hunters, it’ll be someone else. They’ve got minutes, and less and less of them the more he dithers.

“The bullet’s still in?”

Charles nods. Short, sharp. There’s sweat on his forehead, dripping down as he braces himself. Arthur thinksCharles knows what’s gonna happen. But there really ain’t no other way, he thinks, even as he darts back to his saddlebags and grabs some whiskey.

“This is gonna hurt. Ain’t gonna be pleasant,” he says as he approaches again, kneeling in front of Charles. He looks to John and Javier, whose faces are grim. If he don’t do this, he thinks, then Charles could bleed out. He might not, but it’s not a risk he’s willing to take. He can’t lose someone else, especially not Charles. It’s not supposed to happen, and he ain’t about to let it. “Hold him tight. Don’t let him move.”

He remembers the searing pain, the agony of it, feeling like he had been punched and burned and stabbed all at the same time, and now he’s gonna do it to someone else. There ain’t time to start a fire, so he splashes the whiskey over his knife, rinsing the blade and getting it clean as he can. He pours the rest of the whiskey in the wound for good measure. That has Charles stiffening, a pained, agonising hiss escaping, but he doesn’t otherwise make a sound. Charles won’t, he knows. Charles won’t complain. Never has, never will. He’s steadfast, true, will take whatever is thrown at him and roll with it rather than raise a hand. Arthur has only seen him lose it once, and he hopes that, too, won’t happen this time.

He doesn’t hesitate as he rips Charles’ shirt, revealing the wound, and doesn’t hesitate as he inserts the knife a moment later, twisting it slowly, carefully, searching for the bullet. John and Javier’s grip increases, tightens, though Charles doesn’t move. The only change, the sign that he feels anything, is that his breathing is now a huffing pant. Shallow, quick, pained. Much, much too quick.

It feels like an age, but finally the blade connects with the bullet and Arthur digs it out. There’s a fresh wave of blood, and it’s hard not to be back with Eagle Flies. This blood, though, isn’t as dark. This is a stream rather than a river or ocean. 

Still, Arthur doesn’t slow as he grabs one of his own bullets, bites the casing, and empties the gunpowder over the wound. Charles’ breathing speeds up, a stutter now, harsh enough to lift his shoulders. Arthur can feel Charles tremble, even as Charles bows his head, bracing. He still doesn’t speak, even as Arthur lights a match and presses the flame to the wound. There’s a sizzle, a hiss, the smell of burning flesh as the gunpowder ignites, as the flame spreads and seals the wound, cauterising it. Charles jerks, finally fighting against John and Javier, instincts taking over, but it’s done and the bleeding has stopped. He has to thank Colm for learning that, Arthur thinks, if he ever sees the bastard again. Bastard’s just saved a life. The same scene, but different. The same place, but not the same. Maybe everything’s not lost.

There’s no time to talk, the clock still ticking, and not just for their escape. There’s still Sean and Trelawney to find. There’s no time to stop and pause.

It’s funny, really, because he remembers days and days of exploring the countryside, of hunting, of relaxing, but it feels like he ain’t never gonna have time for that again. Feels like he -they’re- the ones being hunted, or like the days are shorter, or like time is happening quicker, no matter how many times it keeps on slowing. He don’t think he’s ever gonna be able to relax again. 

His hands are shaking, he realises, as he stands, wipes the blood off on his pants, and packs everything away again as Javier and John help Charles onto Taima’s back. Arthur pulls his hat down further, covering his eyes.

It ain’t just his hands that are shaking, and it ain’t just Charles who’s sweating, but he doesn’t want the others to see. He’s in control. He’s fine. Everything’s gonna be okay. It’s gonna work out. They’ll get Sean and Trelawney and head back, and then he can go back to deciding where to go next. He rubs at his face, tired. He’s so fucking tired, but now’s not the time to give up. His lungs are clear, he reminds himself, and that means everything. He can do this. This is nothing.

“Lone Mule Stead,” he repeats. “You hear me? Don’t go tryin’ anythin’ stupid. Don’t go thinkin’ you can get back. Rest tonight, an’ you can head out tomorrow.” He pauses, then, grabs Promise’s reins, checks over his repeater, and then finally looks at John. “Think you an’ Javier can get him there?”

“Because you’re the one who’s gonna be stupid enough for all of us?” John’s own clothes are smudged in blood. There’s blood on his cheek, mixing with the dust and dirt already there. Suddenly they’re on the side of the mountain again. _You’re my brother_ , the words echo, and Arthur knows what John’s gonna say, that he ain’t gonna be so easily convinced to leave him behind. 

“I ain’t leavin’ you,” John says as if on cue. “You can’t do everythin’ on your own, Arthur. ‘Sides, we’ve got more chance of rescuin’ Sean and Trelawney together, an’ you know it. You’re lucky I’m with ya!”

Arthur wants to argue, thinks he really is better off alone, because that way he can keep people safe, but he knows the look on John’s face. John, who still thinks Abigail and Jack are as safe as can be. John, who doesn’t know the full story.

“Fine,” he says. He glances back at Javier. “You goin’ be alright?”

“We are,” Javier says, taking Taima’s reins before climbing onto Boaz’s back. He stops, pauses. “Thank you, Arthur. Thought we were gonnas. We owe you one.”

I killed Bill, Arthur thinks. You owe me nothing. You’re gonna hate me when you find out, but that’s just another problem for later. Maybe they’ll never find out. Maybe Bill will be forever missing.

And so he just nods once, turns, gets ready to mount Promise and go - he’s still got plenty of promises to keep, after all -, but John stops him. The man’s grinning, seemingly enjoying all this, the adrenaline kicking in. Charles is safe, so there’s nothing more to worry about. This is just one big adventure, yet another robbery. Arthur wants to yell at him. If only John knew.

“Wait,” John says. He points to the corpses of the bounty hunters, the men’s horses still close, jittery still but cropping at the grass. John runs forward and grabs one of the bodies, removes the bounty hunter’s hat and starts to pull at the man’s coat. It makes Arthur feel ill, but how many corpses has he looted without thought? Shouldn’t bother him now. It’s just that he’s been dead, too, and he wonders if anyone looted his corpse, too.

John holds up the hat and coat, and grins again, proud. “I’ve got an idea…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm afraid this isn't the best or the longest chapter. For some reason, I get nervous at the idea of writing Charles (probably because I like him so much that I don't want to get him wrong!), but he's safe! Next chapter will be moving onto Sean (finally).
> 
> As always, thank you for reading. Thank you to everyone who has commented, left kudos, subscribed, and bookmarked. Please do keep commenting to let me know what you think!


	10. Take a Gamble

As far as ideas go, Arthur thinks, this one has to be one of the worst. The only way the bounty hunters are gonna fall for it is if they’re blind, and, well, there ain’t no such thing as a blind bounty hunter. Stupid ones, perhaps, but they’d have to have their brain completely removed to even begin to believe this, and maybe not even then. 

The coat swamps Arthur, hanging off his frame, the sleeves about a foot too long, the base of the coat all but trailing along the floor as he takes a step forward and stares flatly at John. The coat is so big that for a moment Arthur’s back in the last few months, where everything was suddenly too big, too baggy, too large, the weight literally falling off him no matter how hard he tried to keep it on. He has to pat his sides to reassure himself, to feel muscles rather than skin and bone. No one had told him how much he would waste away, how long him dying would drag on, or how weak and useless it would make him. All his clothes, in the end, had hung off him, just like this coat does now. It’s suddenly too heavy, and he has to fight the urge not to throw it off. He’s not weak, he reminds himself. Not sick.

But still, the pressure is rising again. It ain’t gonna work, this plan of John’s, is gonna go so disastrously wrong, and if it does succeed, then what-? Given their luck, Sean’s already dead, Trelawny, too, heads blown off, throats slit, hung, drawn, and quartered. The list goes on and on, all deaths he’s already witnessed. It’s like they’re being replayed in his mind, like the films, the slides, are being wound back all over again. Always back, back and back, except in Molly’s place, in Susan’s, Kieran’s, Lenny’s, it’s Sean. He’s only got one chance of this, Arthur knows, and he ain’t sure he’s gonna be able to do it. He can’t watch Sean die again.

It was so much easier the last time, not knowing what was going to happen, so different. He’d been so unaware of everything; had felt so strong, so invincible, like nothing could go wrong; sure of his own strength, his skill, and the gang. It had been before the TB, before his awareness of Dutch, before the gang had started to all go wrong. Now, though, he can’t shake the memories, and it’s hard not to tremble, especially because none of it’s gone right so far. They’re bound to know, the bounty hunters. The element of surprise is gone, and they’re gonna take one look at Arthur, at John, and laugh in their faces before shooting them square in the head. 

It ain’t gotta last, John says. The disguise don’t have to work for long, just long enough for them to get in there and be the ones who shoot first. 

Arthur doesn’t recall how many men there were the last time, but it seemed like an endless stream, although then they were spread out, divided in two - the cliff and the camp. Now, however, they’re all gonna be together. He doesn’t know whether that’s an advantage or not, whether it’ll make things harder. He doesn’t know and can’t predict. Everything is up in the air. There’s too many unknowns.

He can’t. He can’t do this, he thinks. He really can’t. There’s too much risk. Too much at stake. He knows he wants to change things, but this is too different, this is going that little bit too far.

“You ready?” 

John, the bastard, looks fine in the coat. It’s big, too big, but from a distance no one will be able to tell. Maybe it’s the same for Arthur. Maybe he’s overthinking things. Maybe he’s thinking _Charles got shot, Charles got shot, Charles got shot._ It’s harder to go charging into something when one of your men is already down, when it ain’t going nothing like you thought. But then what did he think? That it’d be exactly the same? That he could bring John along and just add one man, and nothing would change?

He can’t do this, he thinks again, but, even before the thought ends, he finds himself straightening, adjusting the coat and nodding. He can’t, but he has to. He ain’t about to leave Sean behind because he’s scared. He don’t think he’s stopped being afraid since before he died. The feeling is nothing new. 

_I’m afraid_ , the thought echoes. His voice, his words.

 _There is nothing to be afraid of, Mr. Morgan,_ Sister Calderón counters. He can hear it so clearly. Her words, her voice. _Take a gamble..._

And he _has_ been gambling since the start, hoping, praying, fooling himself. Why stop now?. It went all right with Kieran, didn’t it? And John. John’s beside him. John’s still there.

John nudges him. “Jesus, Arthur. You still nursin’ that concussion from the other day? When you managed to knock yourself out?” John’s voice is upbeat, teasing, but then it drops and lowers, matching the sudden frown on his face. Concern, Arthur thinks, like Marston should be worrying about him. “You alright? We don’t have t-”

“We do,” Arthur cuts in, and steels himself, knowing the words he speaks are the truth. The shaking stops. His hands are steadier as the indecision starts to fade. Not gone completely, but shoved away for now, covered up, the doubts pushed down, the cracks patched over. Take a gamble. So long as he tries. He can’t do more. “If we don’t,” he continues, “Sean’s gonna be halfway across the country an’ hangin’ from a rope before we can even blink. There ain’t no one else. There ain’t time. It’s got to be us.”

It’s John’s turn to nod. “You still alright with the plan?”

No, Arthur thinks, but they ain’t got anything else. They can try sneaking up, try something similar to the last time - and didn’t that go completely wrong? It did, he remembers, it did. It weren’t all smooth sailing and sunshine and roses-, but there’s the chance that they’ll be seen and spotted before they have a chance to do anything; that Ike Skelding has sent more men, that there will be men guarding, watching the roads. From a distance, the disguises will hopefully hold, will make it easier than trying to sneak in. Just two bounty hunters returning empty-handed. Maybe the sheer number of Ike’s men will work for them. Ain’t like it’s a tight-knit group. Numbers breed unfamiliarity. 

So “Just get on the fucking horse, Marsden,” he makes himself growl, because if they’re moving he ain’t thinking. There won’t be time. 

The plan involves them taking the bounty hunters’ horses, too. They’ve got a choice of four. Belgian Drafts. Mealy Chestnut. Same tack, same saddlebags, same bridles. All indistinct from one another. They can come back for Old Boy and Promise later. They ain’t planning on leaving anyone alive, so it’s not like they need to get away fast. 

The horses are still agitated, but settle after a few pats, easily calming. Seems they’re used to strangers, like they’re constantly swapping riders, and the thought stills Arthur’s mind even further. He’s used to gangs like theirs, Dutch’s, has been thinking of the bounty hunters like that, but it’s probably more like dealing with the O’Driscolls. Full of nobodies, no ones; nameless, irreplaceable faces. They ain’t gonna notice. They bounty hunters are just gonna see the horses and the clothes, and, by the time they realise, it’ll be too late. 

And so he and John mount up, though not before he checks over his weapons, makes sure the repeater is fully loaded; that he’s got plenty of bullets. Express bullets. They’re taking enough risks already. 

And then they’re on their way, urging the horses into a canter. It feels like the world’s slowed down again. This time, the horses don’t seem to eat up the ground. They barely seem to move, their canter lolling, rolling, far too steady, a boat without its sails, just bobbing along on the waves. It’s hard not to urge them on, to kick his heels back and charge forward, but if they come rushing in, belting along like they have hounds snapping at their heels, it’ll only raise suspicions. Got to make it seem like they don’t have a care in the world, like they’re returning from a cold trail. 

They take the same path that Arthur did the first time, down to the river and then up through the cliffs, though this time there ain’t a fight. No men, no shots. It’s deserted. Their hoofbeats echo off the cliff walls, the silence deafening. He’s torn between thinking that they’ll succeed and that this is a trap. He sees Charles ahead of them, fighting with one of the bounty hunters, so close, so very close to falling, toppling, before he blinks and the image fades. It ain’t the same as last time, but maybe that’s not necessarily a bad thing. 

As they pass by Fort Riggs, they slow to a trot. Arthur pulls up the collar of his coat, tips his hat down, tucks his chin in, hunches his shoulders, doing his best to further disguise himself. The small water tower comes into view, and the cabins, half burnt down. They still aren’t stopped, aren’t questioned. There’s no sound of bullets. No one firing, no one shooting. They can do this, he thinks. They can do this, his confidence growing. It’s going to work. The plan’s actually gonna work. Maybe Mars-

But then John is stopping, halting, pulling sharply on the reins. Arthur can hear his exhalation of breath, even as he spins ‘round to face him. 

“It’s empty. They ain’t here.” His voice is tense, strained; it breaks on the last word. John’s voice is always like that, when he’s worried, like it ain’t ever fully broken. They used to tease him about it, torment him, but Arthur doesn’t feel even the slightest bit of amusement now. Instead, he feels himself grow cold, feels his stomach drop.

Because John’s right. There’s no sign of Sean, no sign of Trelawny. The place is deserted, like they’ve never even been here. There’s no sign of anything. No rope, no fires, no equipment. Nothing. 

And just like that the dam breaks. The rushing, roaring sound is back, the yellow colouring his vision, seeping through. Breathe, he thinks. Breathe. Just breathe. Think things through, but he can’t, can only focus on the emptiness, the way it seems like they’ve never, ever been here at all, that there was never a chance of the plan succeeding, no hope, no nothing. This certainly didn’t happen the last time. Surely something should have stayed the same? Something. Unless Sean’s already dead.

And then a train whistles, once, twice, and John’s looking at him, and they’re suddenly moving, wrenching the horses ‘round, kicking them on, digging their heels in, driving them back onto the road, because maybe, just maybe... Go west, he remembers. They were taking Sean west. What if-?

Clods of dirt fly up from the road. This time the horses move quickly, once again eating up the ground, their ears back, nostrils flaring, eyes wide, chest heaving, their every breath like bellows, but Arthur doesn’t care. He just crouches lower over his horse’s neck, urging it on, barrelling around the corners, up the rises, and then off the path, through the grass, until they’re weaving through the trees. He sees a glimmer. A hint of metal. The bridge, before he urges his horse on even more. It’s suddenly become a race, and one that he can’t lose. 

They smash through brambles, jump over logs, careen through water, John on his heels. He doesn’t remember it taking so long to get between Riggs Station and Riggs Fort, but it feels like miles, until finally they crash out into the open and onto the train-track, the light suddenly bright. 

The train is there, at the station, just ahead of them, and the bounty hunters are loading the last of their kit onto the carriages. There’s no sign of Sean or Trelawny, but Arthur knows they’re there. Where else can they can be? Nowhere.

There’s another whistle. A number of the bounty hunters draw back and away, return to their horses, as the train starts to move, pulling away from the station and rapidly gaining speed. 

Arthur doesn’t think. He doesn’t think about how the bounty hunters see him. He doesn’t think about the coat, the hat. There’s just targets, and he paints them with ‘x’s even as he draws his repeater, lifts it up. He can feel John do the same beside him, and then men are falling, tumbling from their horses. There are cries of shocks, surprise. There must be ten of them, twelve at most, and they try to rally, try to put themselves between Arthur and the train, but it’s too late. They fall, one after another, until the shouts stop, the cries go silent, and there’s only the sound of the shots, each and every one hitting its target. It feels like an age. It’s over in an instant.

It’s John who moves first, the same idea clearly in his mind as he takes off after the train. They’ve done this a hundred, a thousand times, but Arthur’s momentarily slammed back, back in time, back into the future, because the last time this happened, the last time they chased a train, John fell. They all thought he’d died. Another time Dutch lied to them.

But this ain’t the same. This is different, is so far from being similar to anything he experienced the last time. He don’t want it to be, but it is, and he has to use that to keep on going. Who knows what the outcome will be? He may not succeed, but he has to _try_ , has to take a gamble.

The hesitation fades, gone as quickly as it came, only patched over perhaps, but gone. He’s two steps behind John as they draw level with the train. There’s shots flying again, whizzing over the heads as the bounty hunters come running, alerted by the commotion behind them. Arthur doesn’t try to shoot back, but hunches down lower as he draws level with the flatbed carriage. There’s a sudden thwack, and then a whinny, a shrill shriek of a pain, and his horse stumbles, almost losing its footing, jolting him momentarily out of his saddle. He catches himself even as the Belgian Draft rights itself and runs on, its shoulder reddening with blood. Now or never, he thinks. Now or never

He lets go the reins, jumps a moment before John does. There’s a feeling of floating, of hanging in the air, even as bullets continue to whizz past, and then he’s hitting the wooden planking that covers the carriage floor. The breath is smashed from him, but he doesn’t need to breathe to move. It’s almost automatic, the motions, something he has to thank Dutch for. How many times has a robbery gone wrong? How many times have things suddenly gone to pot? How many times has he found himself suddenly rolling and ducking and diving, faced with ten times the men that were promised?

Arthur does just that, rolling, ducking, diving, until his shoulder slams into a barrel and he takes cover, starts breathing again, aims, fires, aims, fires, stopping only to reload. The bounty hunters fall away. Bodies pile up. Aim, fire, aim, fire, John with him every step of the way. He has no idea who falls to who, but it doesn’t matter. 

“Sean!” he yells over the sound of the shooting, as he continues to press forward, moving from one barrel, one crate, to the next. Only when they reach the carriages proper do they stop, taking cover on either side of the open doorway. 

“Sean!” he yells again, his voice louder this time. “Trelawny!” 

He thinks he hears a reply, but the words are muffled. The train carries on. They’re over a bridge, somewhere in the mountains. The ground drops away below them. There’s the glint of water, glistening white and blue, quick flashes. Rapids, he thinks, but can’t hear anything over the sound of the train itself and the roaring of his own heart.

“You stop right there! Don’t come any closer!” It ain’t Sean. It ain’t Trelawny. Arthur doesn’t even have to guess as he peers around the doorway and into the carriage, weapon still ready. Somewhere along the line, he’s swapped his repeater for a pistol. 

Ike Skelding. 

The man is just as tall as his men, just as scarred. A scar on his cheek pulls his lips up into a rictus grin, but it’s clear from his eyes he ain’t smiling. He looks furious, but it ain’t him Arthur is looking at but the man he’s holding, the man whose forehead he has a pistol pressed to. 

Sean. 

The train fades away. Arthur hears Sean’s voice, watches him turn back towards them, cocky as always, sees the bullet hit…

_Sean!_

Not again, not a second time. 

The world comes back again, Arthur’s gaze momentarily flickering. He forces himself to take deep breaths, to steady himself and just calm down. It’s not going to be the same, he repeats. He won’t let it. It _isn’t_ the same, and it isn’t going to be, but that’s not a bad thing.

Sean’s gagged, a cloth stuffed in his mouth, arms tied behind his back. The cloth moves with every puff of his breath. Apparently the bounty hunter’s tired of his voice, though it looks like he currently has no words, his eyes wide with panic. There’s no sign of Trelawny. 

“ _Arthur_!” It’s John this time. 

Arthur shakes his head, silencing him, even as he edges out, moves so that he’s standing in the middle of the doorway.

“I told you not to come any closer,” Skelding spits, his voice just as rough as his scars, a complete match: not someone easily intimidated. “One more step and I’ll shoot. I won’t get as much for a corpse, but I’ll still get paid.”

Enough thinking. Enough waiting. Enough trying to guess what will happen. All the times he’s tried to do just that it’s never worked out. It got him here, after all. It got him dead. He thought he knew everything, and then discovered he knew nothing.

 _Take a gamble_.

And so Arthur steps forward. 

And the shot is deafening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know when you have a plan, and you're going to stick to it no matter what? Nope! Not happening. I had planned - and hoped - for Sean to be in the chapter more, but that didn't end up working out. But my plans also involved him dying and living (I was going to seeing which one worked out better), and it all ended up a bit of a mess, and I'm still somewhat torn on what to do. I guess we'll just have to see what happens in the next time.
> 
> As always, thank you for reading. Thank you to everyone who has commented, left kudos, subscribed, and bookmarked. Please do keep commenting to let me know what you think!
> 
> And stay safe!


End file.
